


Coda

by FidotheFinch



Series: invictus [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Tags Contain Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: Damian is home, but not secure.Dick has his brother, but not his dad.Gotham has a body, but no justice.Recovery isn't easy, especially when rewriting a new "normal."Luckily, Batman and Robin have each other's backs.-Sequel to "Unauthorized Understudy"-
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Series: invictus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822495
Comments: 126
Kudos: 268





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back!
> 
> If you're new here, you should go back and read the first story in this series. This story will not make sense, otherwise, and this chapter contains major spoilers for the first story.  
> If you've already read the first story, I want to give a quick heads-up: I made a few minor tweaks so Damian was gone twelve days instead of four. Nothing major changed; there was just more "down time" between events.
> 
> I would also like to say that I am in no way trying to make a statement on the Black Lives Matter movement or other current events in the US right now. (It will become more obvious why I am saying this later in the story.) I have been planning this story for a long time, and see Gotham as a fictional world with different circumstances than our own. Please read accordingly.
> 
> Like last time, I will post chapter-specific warnings in the author's notes. Keep in mind that this story will deal with the fallout and recovery of a traumatic event, and all that entails. If there is anything you see or are worried about that you would like me to warn/tag for, you can comment here or message me on my tumblr (@fidothefinch).
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: retelling of traumatic events, physical therapy
> 
> I hope you guys are as excited as I am to dig into this! Without further ado:

Damian was _not_ nervous.

He shifted in his seat. The wheelchair was hard and utilitarian, and Damian had been sitting so long his bottom was beginning to ache. A not-insignificant part of him yearned for his worn, overstuffed chair back at the manor.

There was nothing familiar here. He waited in front of the plastic table that served as dining room when Batman needed a safe place to lay low. Damian had never been to this safehouse before; it was why they had chosen it as the meeting place. They wouldn’t likely need to use it again.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Damian frowned at the time; they would be starting late.

He was getting impatient. He wasn’t nervous.

His Robin suit hid everything. They had modified it, just for tonight, enough to leave space for all of the bandaging. It was why they had to be here in the first place: he couldn’t write yet; his fingers were too stiff. Still, he double-checked everything. He tugged his hood further forward to hide the yellowing bruises across his face. His domino—wider now, concealing the ring of irritated skin—was intact. As were his high collar, his sleeves, his gloves, his tunic clasps, his utility belt and all its pouches, the dagger in his boot, his—

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he couldn’t hide the way he jumped.

It retreated quickly. “Sorry.”

“TT.”

Grayson, worried expression hidden by the Batman cowl, stooped down to remain in his line of vision. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Of course not. Damian nodded anyway.

“Gordon can wait,” Grayson prodded. “We can leave. He’ll understand.”

Damian shook his head, and regretted it when his sore muscles protested the movement. “No.” He sat up a little straighter in his chair, wincing at the stretch in his ribs. “If we wait any longer they may accuse us of conspiring.”

He knew Grayson couldn’t argue. Gotham was reeling. The only public information was that an officer had been killed, and Batman and Robin were involved. They didn’t know the context.

They were out for blood.

So the morning Damian woke up and could speak beyond a whisper again, he arranged a meeting to give his statement.

He clenched his hands in his lap. He was regretting it already.

Just as he was thinking it, there was a knock at the door.

Despite how long he had spent out of the suit, Batman fell over Grayson’s features like a second skin. He silently strode to the locked door. “You’re late,” he growled.

Damian couldn’t help tensing at the tone. It was too familiar, too soon.

“Had to circle the block a few times,” came the answering voice, muffled through the door.

Batman swung the door open slowly, and the Commissioner poked his head inside.

“Gordon,” Batman greeted.

“Batman.” Gordon nodded in his direction. His gaze swung over to Damian, and his eyes softened. “Robin.”

Damian bristled at that look. He did not want pity. “Do you have the recorder?”

Gordon visibly hesitated, and Damian scowled because he knew it was in reaction to his hoarse voice. But the man didn’t comment, only nodded, pulling the small black box out of his coat pocket. “It’s right here. I’m glad to see you.”

Damian ignored the weight of the last statement. He couldn’t dwell on it.

Batman finished locking the door and came up beside Robin again. “Were you followed?”

“Nobody knows where I am. I circled the block and saw nothing suspicious.”

“And if he makes this statement, he doesn’t have to testify in person.”

“I will do my best. The judge agrees the risk is too high to warrant it, but it all depends on what angle the prosecutors take.”

Batman hummed under his breath, crossing his arms.

Gordon set the recording device and manilla folder on the table and sat in the folding chair opposite Damian. “Ready?”

Batman, to his side, nodded. But Damian still had a worry keeping his gut wound tight. He moved his hands to the arms of his chair and purposefully relaxed them. He had to be in control. “This statement cannot be made public.”

Gordon leaned forward and, realizing his mistake when Damian flinched, sat back again. “I will do everything in my power to keep it confidential. Only those present in the trial will have access, and you’re a minor, so the documents and trial will not be open to the public.”

Damian nodded, considering. “That is acceptable.” He took a deep breath, centering himself. “What do I say?”

Gordon flipped open the manilla folder of case notes on the table, stopping on a clean page. “State your name first. Start from the beginning. Tell us what happened. I may ask some questions.”

“Very well.”

Gordon glanced at Batman only briefly before switching the recorder on. “Statement of the vigilante known as Robin, taken January thirty-first by Commissioner James Gordon.” He nodded at Damian to proceed.

Damian licked his lips. “I am Robin.”

Get it over with. Just get it over with.

“Michael Heymann captured me on the night of the fourteenth of January and held me captive for twelve days. During that time, he posed as Batman and forced me to work with him as Robin. On the twenty-sixth, he lured Batman to the train station with intent to kill him. And I—” Damian’s voice cracked. It was a side effect; his throat was still recovering. That was it. “I killed him.”

There was a long pause. Gordon looked at him over the rim of his glasses. Then he reached over and shut the recorder off. He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am going to need a full statement for the courts.”

“That covered everything.”

“I need more detail.”

“Like dates?” Damian’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair until he could feel his racing pulse in the swollen joints of his fingers. “Names?”

“This investigation is being conducted under the assumption that you murdered Michael Heymann. We need proof it was done in self-defense.” Gordon looked up again, and his eyes were full of remorse. “I need you to tell me what he did to you.”

Damian froze. He had known this is what he was here for, but right now he felt like he was looking down the wrong end of the barrel of a smoking gun. “Nothing happened.”

He heard Grayson suck in a breath, behind him.

Gordon searched his face, which Damian forced into a passive state. The concerned man looked over Damian’s shoulder. “We can give it a few more days.”

“ _No_ ,” Damian ground out. “I. . . that was. . . I can tell you. This cannot wait any longer.”

Gordon nodded.

Damian’s hands were shaking now.

Batman pulled up the other chair next to him. He held his hand out, palm-up, next to Damian. Without hesitation, Damian gripped it and squeezed as hard as he could, regardless of the pain that flared. The hand squeezed back reassuringly, one thumb softly stroking over his clenched fingers.

Gordon switched the recorder back on. “Statement of the vigilante known as Robin, taken January thirty-first by Commissioner James Gordon.” He flipped open his case notes, giving Damian an opportunity to back out.

He didn’t take it.

“Let’s start from the beginning. What happened the night of January fourteenth?”

* * *

Batman was quiet, the entire ride home.

Damian watched him in the reflection of the dashboard while he pretended to nap against the window. He hadn’t expected making his statement to be so tiring, even with Grayson’s warnings. Being physically tense for the last three hours had his muscles aching now, but there was something else, a bone-deep exhaustion that he guessed couldn’t be solved with stretches.

Even with all of that, he couldn’t force himself to drift off. His skin prickled. He found himself examining his mentor, instead.

Grayson was stiff. His jaw was set.

He was. . . angry?

“I should apologize,” Damian whispered. His voice had taken the heaviest toll from the excursion, and his recovery was surely set back several days now.

Grayson blinked, and immediately his demeanor changed. “For what?”

Damian shrugged with his good shoulder. “My inability to control myself.”

Grayson blinked again, and shook his head, hard. “No. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I—”

“You reacted like any normal person would.”

“But I’m not a normal person. I should be better.” The more he talked, the more pronounced the tickle in the back of his throat became. He swallowed it down bitterly.

Grayson hit the autopilot, and when they were far enough from the city he pulled the cowl back. “I don’t think this is the best time to have this conversation. Let’s get home, change, eat, and then we can debrief, okay?”

Damian crossed his arms and turned to the window. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. They both knew it was easier for him to talk to Grayson than Batman, these days.

* * *

Damian sat on top of his sheets, against a mountain of pillows he would normally scoff against. A special heated pillow sat around Damian’s neck to help relax the muscles there. Titus mirrored the warmth, curled around his feet and watching him with big brown, sleepy eyes.

Damian worked his prescribed soft clay between his fingers. It was pathetic, really. He had never had trouble with clay before, but now even the softest putty reminded him of working with cold rubber.

There was a knock at his door, and it was only because he was expecting it that Damian didn’t jump. “You may enter,” he called.

Dick strode in, in fresh pajamas and a steaming mug of tea in his hand. He nodded down to Damian’s hands. “You’re getting stronger.”

“Tt.” One of Damian’s fingers began to burn at the joint. He scowled and pushed through the pain, squeezing harder to make the clay yield.

As though sensing his souring mood, Dick held the empty storage tub out for him. “I think that’s enough for today,” Dick suggested. His tone left no room for argument.

Damian smoothed his expression back into one of indifference and squished the clay back into the tub without comment.

Grayson leaned over him, to set the tub on the nightstand, and Damian shrank back. He couldn’t pinpoint the cause for his reaction, except mentally noting the same thing happened when Grayson tried to hug him.

And he had just gotten used to it, too.

Grayson sighed, settling down onto the opposite side of the bed. “Have you taken your meds?”

He was referring, of course, to the antibiotics fighting the infection in his back, and the painkillers prescribed to ease the pain in his chest when he breathed. (They had not helped when he had given in to the urge to cough, earlier.) “Yes.”

“Bandages?”

“Pennyworth helped me with them.”

“Brace?”

Damian wiggled his leg, showing off his stiff foot and the black boot surrounding it. “Yes.”

“And you did your--”

Damian scowled. “ _Yes_. I did the exercises. I have done everything. You don’t have to treat me like a child.”

Grayson drained the rest of the tea in his hand. “Sorry.”

Damian studied his face. He had heavy bags under his eyes, and his chin was beginning to show stubble. He looked tired, and Damian couldn’t help feeling guilty. _He_ had caused that. “Apology accepted.”

Grayson gave Damian a small smile. “You know, I used to say the same thing to Bruce, when I was your age.”

“Tt.”

“Except it never stopped him.” His smile turned wistful. “If he were here now? He’d have you on bedrest until summer.”

“I would like to see him try.” Damian huffed. “You did not keep a knife under your pillow. That was your downfall.”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying Damian’s face. “You don’t. . .” And when Damian didn’t respond, he swiped a hand under his pillows.

He found nothing. “Brat,” he muttered, with a smile.

_(“You little brat!” Heymann cried.)_

Damian blinked once, hard, at the memory. But he was careful to keep his face neutral. “You _thought_ I would have one. That is the most important part.”

Grayson rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You’re almost as paranoid as Bruce.”

Damian couldn’t help the wave of satisfaction that gave him. It was almost enough to overtake the unease clinging like cobwebs to his mind.

Grayson yawned, leaning back so he was lying parallel to Damian. “You good if I crash here?”

“I suppose.”

It was more of a formality than anything, at this point. Grayson had slept in his room for the last week.

Grayson wormed his way under Damian’s sheets, and, rolling his eyes, Damian followed suit. He slept sitting up to ease breathing with his broken ribs. Titus immediately repositioned himself between the two of them. The feeling of the big dog’s breaths against Damian’s side was a welcome comfort, and within minutes Damian could feel that tight ball of unease in his chest falling apart.

“Why did you lie, earlier?”

Damian was so close to sleep, the question caught him off guard. “What?”

Dick rolled over to face him, over Titus’s head. “You told Gordon that Heymann didn’t do anything. Why would you say that?”

His tone wasn’t accusatory, but Damian found himself feeling defensive, nevertheless. “I don’t know.”

Dick rolled over again, to face the ceiling. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, okay.” Dick sighed. “Just. . . I know how it worked for you growing up. And you know it’s not the same here, right? You can talk about it.”

“I know.” But old habits die hard.

Grayson reached a hand over. “I wish I could give you a hug, right now.”

Damian clicked his tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous.” To appease the man, he took Grayson’s hand. “Go to sleep.”

He could feel Grayson’s worried eyes on him for nearly an hour, but eventually, even that was replaced by soft, deep breaths.

Damian didn’t sleep a wink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else in an area that is starting to shut down again because people refused to socially distance the first time and NASCAR hosted a race in your county and 18,000 people showed up to see it? (I'm going to scream)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: discussion of re-feeding meal plan (skip the paragraph starting with “Nobody had told him as much yet” if you would like to skip it), wounds (medium?-graphic descriptions)

_“Welcome back. This is Bill Watercott with Channel 1 news, your number one Gotham news source. I’m reporting from outside the Gotham Police Department headquarters, where Police Commissioner James Gordon has scheduled a press conference regarding the case of the alleged murder of one of Gotham’s police officers._

_“Heymann was a 47-year-old man who had worked in the forces for more than a decade. His body was found early the morning of January 27 th at the Gotham train station. Since the news of his death, Gotham citizens have stormed social media, demanding that the case is investigated and the perpetrator punished to the fullest extent of the law._

_“We expect the Commissioner to address the new evidence released to the public. Two days ago the train station’s security footage from the night of Heymann’s death was posted anonymously to online forums. The footage revealed that the vigilante known as Batman was at train station mere hours before Heymann’s body was discovered._

_“Here he comes, now.”_

_“Good morning. As Police Commissioner I am saddened by the news of the death of one of our officers, Michael Heymann. We value the life of each of our team members, and I want to offer my deepest condolences to his loved ones. The investigation surrounding his death is ongoing, but I can assure that we will uphold our pledge to seek justice—"_

Damian turned down his radio when there was a knock at his door. “Master Damian,” Pennyworth greeted. “I have your breakfast. May I come in?”

Damian could see the butler through the crack left in the door, so only nodded in response. The tickle had not left his throat, but it felt distinctly different than it had the day before last – lower? Damian couldn’t trust he wouldn’t cough again if he spoke.

Pennyworth quirked an eyebrow in response to the nonverbal answer, entering the room with a silver tray. “I see you are choosing to abide by the suggestion for vocal rest today. Excellent choice.”

Damian scowled at the older man as he set the tray on the bedside table, but gave no verbal response.

At the silence, Pennyworth paused, looking up from the tray of breakfast to study Damian’s face. “Have there been any changes in your recovery since last night?”

Damian met Pennyworth’s knowing gaze with what he hoped was irritation and clicked his tongue. He adjusted his position so he was sitting up more fully, and Pennyworth set the tray down to help tweak the pillows that cushioned Damian’s seat. The older man had grown used to this small routine; he knew exactly where to set the pillows to avoid adding pressure to the most painful of the lesions on Damian’s back.

Satisfied with being more upright, Damian held out a hand for the medication he knew Pennyworth had brought.

“Breakfast first,” the butler reminded, before placing the pills on the tray. He moved the tray over Damian’s lap, setting it up so it was a kind of table.

Damian grudgingly grabbed the cup of orange juice on the tray and drained half the cup in one go.

Pennyworth sighed. “I will collect supplies while you eat. Do take your time; eating quickly poses the risk of giving you nausea again.” He disappeared into the hallway, only to poke his head out again. “I must advise against listening to the drivel on the news, young sir. Perhaps classical music would better suit the morning?”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Damian reluctantly changed the station on his radio, and the familiar tune of Bach’s _Concerto for Two Violins_ drifted from the speakers. He paused a moment, mentally tracking the sheet music and longing for his violin. He hadn’t been able to play in nearly a month; his skills were sure to have atrophied by the time he regained fine motor movement in his fingers.

The thought quelled his desire to eat the food quickly out of spite. (And truthfully he did _not_ want a repeat of the last time he had.) So he picked up the first piece of toast—whole wheat, smothered in peanut butter, honey, and banana slices--and nibbled on it. He paused after the first bite, feeling the odd combination of textures before deciding it was acceptable enough to swallow.

Nobody had told him explicitly, but he suspected they had put him on a kind of refeeding meal plan. He had had only one significant meal during his initial two weeks of captivity, and both Grayson and Pennyworth had commented on his weight several times since his return. Since he had worked his way up to solid food, Pennyworth had been bringing him more substantial meals more often. Damian couldn’t complain; he was anxious to get back to training, and he knew that wouldn’t be allowed until his condition had improved.

He had scarcely finished the first slice of toast when the urge to cough returned tenfold. He swallowed uncomfortably at the sticky, thick feeling of the peanut butter coating his throat. A short pause, straining his ear for the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, confirmed Pennyworth was not close enough to hear anything, so Damian risked tilting his head into his elbow and letting out a few small coughs, careful to keep them shallow so they wouldn’t irritate his chest as badly.

But once he had started, he couldn’t stop.

He stubbornly kept his mouth shut in an attempt to stifle the sound and reached for his glass. He shook with every cough, sloshing the orange juice against his face while he tried to calm his breathing enough to swallow.

(And something at the back of his mind tickled with a memory – the orange juice tasted like coppery old pipe water, and it left a grit on his teeth.)

He gagged, spitting the last mouthful of juice back into his cup before setting it aside. He scraped his tongue against his teeth, trying to rid his mouth of that awful sensation.

Still, the juice had helped, even if it didn’t completely eliminate the grungy feeling in his throat. By the time Pennyworth returned with the tray of medical equipment, he had managed to compose himself, hoping the heat he felt in his face wasn’t visible.

Pennyworth gave him an odd look when he came through the door, and frowned when he saw the second slice of toast still on the plate. “Not to your liking?”

Damian seized the opportunity and shook his head. “Peanut butter in my throat,” he rasped.

“Of course, my apologies. I will bring a more suitable meal after we have finished.” Pennyworth pulled a chair up next to the bed and set the tray of supplies on the bedside table. “Have you taken your medication?”

Damian shook his head and quickly downed the pills dry.

“Would you like to wait until the painkillers have had time to activate, or shall we start now?”

Damian hated the routine. Better to get it over with. In answer, he gave the older man his left hand, bruised and swollen.

“How are your fingers feeling?” Pennyworth asked, removing the bandage from one of them. He dragged a smaller cushion over to act as gentle support for Damian’s wrist; his hands never wrapped around Damian’s.

Damian nodded to indicate their improvement. But despite the truth, he hissed when Pennyworth coaxed the finger into a tight curl, forcing the swollen joint to bend much farther than it wanted to.

“I apologize, Master Damian, but it is necessary to flush out the swelling.”

Eyes shut, Damian nodded. “I understand.” He steeled himself with a slow breath (not too deep, nothing that would disturb his ribs—that came after the painkillers kicked in.) When he was sure he was ready, he curled the finger again himself.

Pennyworth was careful in his examinations, both focused and gentle. He remained quiet, except for asking Damian how he felt his condition was faring. And Damian appreciated the distance; it was difficult enough letting somebody manipulate his most vulnerable injuries without having to _talk_ about them. As much as he missed Grayson’s company, he much preferred to be left alone during this part of his daily routine. The man pried.

“Do you require my assistance to remove the bandages from your wrists?”

Damian’s heart sped up slightly. He shook his head, peeled the layer of medical tape away, and slowly unwound the cotton and linen packed around his wrists. He fought to control his face when his mottled skin was revealed. The burns. Most of them had scabbed over, but the largest one, on his right wrist, was still open and weeping clear fluid. At least it wasn’t infected anymore.

Pennyworth carefully applied triple antibiotic ointment to the open wounds with a suspiciously blank face.

“What is wrong?” Damian asked.

Pennyworth’s hands stilled. “I am afraid there is a chance there will be scarring.”

Damian nodded, but it wasn’t until Pennyworth was wrapping fresh bandages around his wrists that he realized the implications.

His neck would probably scar, too.

He was so caught up in the thought he missed when Pennyworth asked if Damian wanted to remove the bandages around his neck himself. But he paused at the first touch to Damian’s neck. Frowned. “How are you feeling?” he asked, again.

Damian was fine.

Pennyworth’s inner wrist brushed past Damian’s forehead.

Damian shrinked away from the touch. “As I said, I am well.”

Pennyworth only paused a moment, studying Damian’s face, before continuing. He repeated the tedious process of cataloging and sanitizing each blister on Damian’s neck, hands never touching more than necessary.

Pennyworth turned up the music about the same time the painkillers kicked in, and Damian was thankful for the excuse he was being given to drift. He was wearing a shirt that buttoned up the front, a necessity when raising your arms over your head made it difficult to breathe, and Damian steeled himself as Pennyworth helped him remove it with clinical touch.

Pennyworth gave him a large cushion to hug, and Damian leaned forward to give the older man access to his back.

He forced his mind to wander. He focused on keeping his breathing even, on the music coming from the radio that he thought his mother would have liked. He recited poetry in his head when fingers gently prodded at the dark purple bruising where his chest and sides had cracked. He practiced calculating momentum and converting Celsius to Fahrenheit to Kelvin and back again when healing ointment was applied to a gash in his back that ran shoulder to hip.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Pennyworth caught his attention with a gentle, “Master Damian?”

Damian blinked, chin still tucked over the pillow he was using as a prop. He turned his head to look at the butler.

“Do you still wish to return to your studies today?”

Damian kept his face blank, but he suspected the butler could read his answer, anyway. Still, the man politely waited for a response.

It had been one of the most difficult battles he had fought since his return. Pennyworth and Grayson insisted he lie around the Manor all day until he reached a suitable point of recovery. But Damian had never. . . resting from his studies and routines had never been allowed, no matter the injury or illness. He took pride in his ability to push through and continue, as though nothing had changed.

They had come to an understanding: seven days and nights of bed rest. Then they would “revisit” it.

He wanted— _needed_ \--everything to go back to normal.

He cleared his throat. “I do.”

Pennyworth did not look especially pleased about the answer, but then, if he were displeased, it would have been obvious. “Very well. Complete your breathing exercises. I will have the appropriate materials prepared for you by this afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

The butler paused at the words, but was wise enough not to comment. Before he left, he turned back to Damian. “I will be advising Master Richard as to which studies are appropriate for your current health status. Be aware he cannot be persuaded to bring you a sword.”

Despite his burgeoning schemes being thwarted, Damian’s lips quirked up.

He set his face back determinedly when Pennyworth’s mustache twitched in response.

Titus leapt off the bed when summoned by the butler, eager for his daily morning walk throughout the Manor grounds. Damian watched him go with a small amount of jealousy.

When the two had made it down the hallway, Damian reached over to switch the radio back to the news station.

_“Commissioner Gordon, what role did Batman play in Heymann’s death?”_

_“The investigation is ongoing. Until we are certain of cause of death we cannot rule out suicide or natural causes.”_

_“Wasn’t Officer Heymann the one who spearheaded a court order for Batman’s arrest on grounds of unlawful vigilantism, just days before his death?”_

_“He was, yes. But—”_

_“Has the department considered that a possible motive for the officer’s murder?”_

Damian barely finished his deep breathing exercises. Exhaustion weighed his bones down into the soft mattress below him. He leaned back, intending to ride out this newest wave of pain-medication-induced fuzziness.

_“Unless Heymann’s death is ruled as a homicide, we are not pursuing any potential suspects.”_

_“There has been a noticeable drop in Batman sightings since the news of Heymann’s death. Has the department considered whether the vigilante--”_

Damian’s eyes slipped shut.

* * *

Dick looked up from his computer at a sharp rap from the door. “Hello?”

“Sorry to bother you, I know you said you weren’t accepting calls, but—”

“It’s okay,” Dick reassured. He had promised himself he wouldn’t get on the phone for the afternoon so he could catch up with the emails. But, five hours into his day, he was regretting the lack of human contact. “I have a call?”

“It’s on your personal phone.” His secretary held up his sleek device. “You left it on the couch this morning.”

Dick cringed internally. Oops. “Sorry about that.” He used the excuse to stand up and take the short walk the length of the office to retrieve the device.

“It’s okay; I would have left it, but they’ve called a few times now, and I know your brother caught the flu you had—”

Dick tuned her out, ears buzzing. The Caller ID read _Alfred_. “Could you give me a minute?”

She slipped out of the room without another word.

The last missed call was ten minutes ago. Dick hastily called Alfred back, heart leaping to his throat as he listened to the dial tone. He had meant to keep the phone next to him all day, within reach in case something happened.

Four missed calls. Something had happened.

His mind sped through the possibilities; Damian had a flashback. Somebody figured out their identities and kidnapped Damian. The Manor was on fire and Damian was stuck in his room, unable to escape.

“Master Richard.”

“ _Alfred_ ,” Dick replied, a little breathless. He was pacing his office. “What’s wrong?”

“It is nothing to be especially alarmed about. Do take a seat; the carpeting in that office is much too expensive for you to wear through in a single hour of worrying.”

A laugh bubbled out of Dick’s mouth, nothing funny at all. Still, he leaned back on the arm of the leather couch in Bruce’s office. “It’s Damian,” he didn’t ask.

“I’m afraid he has taken ill.”

Dick glanced at the door. The office was soundproofed; he wouldn’t need to worry about prying ears here. He started packing up his work, shutting down his computer. “The infection?”

“I am not sure. He was hot to the touch this morning, and I heard him coughing while he thought I was out of earshot.”

(Dick knew better. Alfred was _never_ out of earshot.) “I’m coming home.”

“I had hoped you would, if business allowed.”

Dick didn’t care whether ‘business allowed.’ He rushed out of his office, mouthed ‘family emergency’ at his secretary.

“I have not said anything to him yet,” Alfred warned.

Dick knew he made a face. _Thanks, Alf._ He was glad nobody else was in the elevator to see it. “I’ll talk to him.”

* * *

Damian was asleep, for real this time, when Dick arrived. He felt bad intruding on his room without permission, but was less sorry when he spotted the beginnings of a nightmare creasing Damian’s forehead.

“Damian,” he sang lowly. “Hey, Damian.” He resisted the urge to wake him up with a touch. He had learned that lesson.

The boy tensed before opening his eyes. They were glassy.

Dick hid his frown. Damian wouldn’t respond well to it. “I heard you aren’t feeling so great.”

Damian scrutinized him another moment. “I am well,” he finally mustered. But the words caught in his throat, and he spasmed into a flurry of gurgling, wet coughs.

Dick’s stomach turned at the sound of them. “Alfred!” he called.

Damian couldn't stop. His hands flew to his chest, the broken ribs, and his face twisted up in pain.

The butler stopped at the door with a grave face and disappeared. Dick handed Damian the glass of water from the bed stand. Half of it spilled down Damian’s shirt; his chest still contracting with the urge to cough. But he got his breathing under control.

Dick wanted to run a hand through his hair. He held himself back.

Alfred returned with a stethoscope , holding the microphone piece in his hand to warm it up. “I have to put this up your shirt,” he warned Damian.

Dick sat back and let him listen to Damian breathe. It was obvious enough from what he could hear.

Alfred sat back. He folded the stethoscope back around his neck. “Pneumonia.”

Damian lost a shade of color in his face.

“Pneumonia,” Dick conceded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't do as much research as I should have on pneumonia. But it's for the hugs?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for taking so long to update; I had a planned jaw surgery, and apparently only being allowed to eat liquids and soft food really sucks all your creative energy right away. I'm doing better now, (hopefully back to soft solids next week!), so finally had enough coherence to finish up this chapter. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Me, trying to plan a sequel: I don't know how to write a recovery fic. I can't just focus on Damian's recovery without side plot!  
> Also me, 10,000 words in: no plot. Only hurt/comfort.  
> When I outlined this, the last chapter, this chapter, and the next chapter were one bullet point. This story keeps stretching out! Sorry if it feels slow; there's a lot of build up but I promise things will pick up! :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: flashback/intrusive thoughts, discussion of coping mechanisms, more mentions of meal plan

A dull buzz started up in the back of Damian’s head. Pneumonia. He must have done something wrong.

“What does this mean?” Grayson asked.

Pennyworth was calm as he replaced the stethoscope around his neck. “We need to monitor his fever and his breathing. It may have been caused by breathing too shallowly.”

“I did my exercises,” Damian whispered.

“I know, Master Damian.” The butler nodded at him in a non-accusatory manner. “But your weakened immune system made it likely for something like this to happen.”

“How long have you been feeling bad?” Grayson asked.

Damian’s fingers tightened around the sheets, heedless of the sharp pain it sent up his knuckles. “I didn’t know,” he insisted. His throat _always_ hurt now; it _always_ hurt to breathe. He hadn’t thought. . .

Grayson didn’t look like he believed him.

“I _didn’t_ ,” Damian repeated. His voice cracked, and he snapped his mouth shut like it would prevent the sound from being noticed.

Pennyworth stepped into the adjacent bathroom and rifled through the medicine cabinet. “I had hoped we would not need to use this. I took the liberty of acquiring some cough medicine after you had returned.” He pulled out a small orange bottle of pills. “We cannot let you further agitate your injuries.” He dumped two into his hand and passed them to Damian with a fresh cup of water.

Damian’s nose wrinkled at the additional medication, but he took them without complaint. Even he had to admit that coughing _hurt_.

“You are welcome.” Turning to Grayson, Pennyworth continued, “I will have to fetch a prescription for stronger antibiotics. I have my cell phone; do call me if his condition changes.”

“I will. Thanks, Alfred,” Grayson said, waving as the older man left.

Grayson ducked to reach under the bed. The keyboard Damian had been forced to use for days after his return bounced off the comforter and into his lap, making him jump.

Damian glowered down at the machine, the implication behind it clear. “I don’t need this.” A betrayal: talking agitated his throat, and he was forced to cough into his elbow again. The coughing made his chest _burn_.

“Use it,” Grayson commanded, not ungently. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

Damian pursed his lips. He typed his next words, but because his ribs hurt, not because Grayson told him to. The little keyboard had grown familiar under his hands, and his reply was quick. “ _You will insist I remain on bedrest until I am no longer sick.”_

At least he looked sympathetic when he answered, “Yes.”

 _“I want to return to my studies._ ”

“Oh.” That ridiculous mask Grayson wore, the reassuring one that hid whatever he was really feeling, cracked. “Has it been a week already?”

That was not a good sign. Damian nodded confidently, but he searched Grayson’s body language for any indication of his answer.

Grayson’s shoulders tightened. Damian knew the answer before he said it. “I don’t think it’s a good idea—"

“ _You promised.”_

“I said we would see how you are doing and then make a decision.” Grayson’s voice was fraying at the edges, and Damian could hear the frustration he was holding back. “And right now—"

Damian pressed the button he had programmed to make the keyboard release a litany of swear words, delivered in an unbearably monotonous robotic voice.

_“Shit ass asshole bitch fu—”_

“Dami--”

“-- _arse damned shithead bloody hell bollocks—”_

Grayson reached over and switched the keyboard off and on again; there was no other way to stop the sound once it had started. He took a deep breath. “Look, I get it. I know how frustrating it is to not be able to do everything you want to.”

 _‘Everything you want to_.’ Like Damian was a petulant child whining for candy before supper and not requesting that a promise to a return to normalcy be fulfilled.

“It’s only for a few more days.”

Days. Whittling away hour after hour by following his feeding plan and performing his physical therapy. Using the keyboard to communicate while everyone else talked over his head. Doing nothing to tire himself enough to sleep.

“Then, when you’re feeling better, we can revisit your lessons.”

Revisit.

Something inside Damian snapped.

“Until then, let us take care—”

“ _No!_ ” Damian’s grip tightened around the _stupid keyboard_ , and then he swung it as hard as he could at the floor.

He didn’t see or hear the keyboard land. His words hit him, and his breath hitched.

“ _Damian_ ,” Grayson reprimanded, voice stern. His posture straightened.

Damian flinched back into his pillows, bracing himself for the hit he knew would follow.

_You know why I’m punishing you._

It echoed, rapid-fire, cutting itself off to repeat again and again and again. It was on loop, playing in his head like dreadful music.

Damian waited, every muscle clenched. His eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t want to see the anger, or the disappointment, on Grayson’s face.

_You know why I’m pu—_

There was a heavy exhale, and Damian jumped. But nothing touched him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Grayson whispered.

They weren’t the words he was expecting, and for some reason he was _angry_ at the loss. The mantra in his head petered off into the background. Damian swallowed his bitterness down, upset it existed at all, and forced his eyes open.

Grayson had straightened in his chair, no longer leaning toward the bed. His hands rested on his knees, but his face was pinched and stiff.

“You are angry,” Damian said. His voice was raspy again, his throat dry.

“No, I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Grayson’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I’m angry. But not at you.”

Damian glanced down. The keyboard was still on the floor where he had tossed it. The display screen was cracked.

He wasn’t sure he believed him. “I did not mean to break it.”

“It’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”

“Hey, Damian,” and this time when Grayson spoke, it was deliberately soft. “Deep breaths.”

He hadn’t realized how fast and shallowly he was breathing. His chest heaved like it had when he had tried to get out of bed by himself three days ago. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Grayson grabbed a pillow that had fallen to the floor and offered it to him. “Just like when you do your exercises.”

Damian accepted to pillow and hugged it, squeezing his eyes shut so he could concentrate. The first few inhales ended with a hitch, and he had to suppress a deep urge to cough. But as he started counting his own heartbeats (he could feel them throbbing in his ribs) they began to slow.

He had to turn away to cough again.

Grayson watched the whole thing with a pitiful face, hands hovering just over the bedspread like he was afraid to touch it or come any closer.

When Damian was able to reclaim control over his coughing, he leaned back, still hugging the oversized pillow against his chest. “I should not have thrown the keyboard.”

Grayson sighed and his posture relaxed into something more natural looking. “It’s just a machine. We can fix it, or we can get a new one.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Grayson moved the keyboard to the bedside table and moved closer. “Can I hold your hand?”

Damian eyed the offered limb. He knew from experience that Grayson’s hands were warm, and calloused, and firm. Comforting.

He shook his head.

A small look of hurt flashed across Grayson’s face before disappearing again. He withdrew his hand. “What can we do to make this easier?”

“Let me continue my lessons.”

“Besides that.”

Damian looked anywhere but Grayson’s face. He knew that would be the answer, but it still stung. “I cannot waste more time.”

“It’s not a waste of time. You’re giving your body what it needs.”

“I need something to do.”

“Rest.”

Damian glared. “Besides that.”

The smile on Grayson’s face was small, but obvious. The bastard. “Using my own words against me, huh?” He rose from his seat and wandered across Damian’s room. “Tell you what, I’m going to call the office and tell them I’m working from home.”

“How should that help?”

“I’ll keep you company. We’ll find something to do.” The man had been skimming fingers over the spines on Damian’s bookcase, but they paused. “Unless. . . “ his head tilted to the side, not looking back but listening for a response. “Am I the reason you haven’t been sleeping?”

So he had noticed. Heat rose in Damian’s ears. “I sleep well.”

Grayson turned back around, book in hand. Poetry, pilfered from the manor’s library. “You didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“How would you know?”

“You didn’t wake me up.”

With a nightmare, he meant. Damian picked at his comforter. “I tried to sleep.” But he wasn’t sure whether or not he was telling the truth.

Because lately he had found himself hesitant to give up his consciousness.

“Hey, it’s okay. I know you did.” Grayson was back at his chair, but he stood behind it instead of sitting again. He thumbed through the book’s pages nervously. “Is it me? Do I make you. . . uncomfortable?”

The idea of Grayson leaving him alone at night made Damian’s heart seize, and his answer came out automatically. “No.”

Grayson’s shoulders relaxed. “You _need_ to sleep, now more than ever. What will make that easier?”

Damian bit the inside of his cheek. He just needed to get over it. Nightmares weren’t real, and he wasn’t a child. “I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?” Grayson’s eyes searched his face. “Maybe there’s something that makes you anxious? Or—”

“I _don’t know_.”

Grayson held his hands up. “Okay, okay.” He frowned, leaning forward so his elbows rested on the back of his chair. “I wouldn’t normally suggest this, but what about taking some medication?”

Damian must have made a face, because Dick dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. “Okay.”

“Grayson, can we not. . . .” Damian couldn’t find a way to say it like an adult. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Blue eyes searched his face. Finally, one corner of Dick’s mouth rose, but the tension elsewhere in his body didn’t fall. “Sure.”

Something in the word promised they would ‘revisit’ it later, and Damian dreaded it.

Dick snapped the book in his hands shut. “Alfred will probably be gone for a while. Do you feel up to eating?”

Damian had dozed through lunch, and only eaten that toast for breakfast. Honestly, he wasn’t hungry. He nodded anyway.

“Great! I’ll order pizza.”

“That does not follow my meal plan.”

Grayson gave him a look. “You,” and he mimed poking him with one finger. “Need some meat on your bones. Pizza will do the trick.”

“Vegetarian.”

“Pshh! You think I would forget?” Grayson seemed more relaxed now, his smile coming more naturally. Despite himself, Damian felt himself settling. “Green olives and mushrooms okay?”

Trust Grayson to remember his favorite. “Yes.”

“Sweet.” He backed toward the door. “Gim’me five and I’ll have sodas and a movie ready.”

“No princess movies.”

Grayson hummed. “No promises.”

* * *

Dick didn’t need a thermometer to feel the heat radiating off Damian’s body. He didn’t say anything when Damian barely nibbled through a single slice of pizza, despite telling him he had been hungry earlier. And Dick tried to limit the amount he was sneaking glances over at the warmer child, even after watching his face get paler and his eyes get glassy before slipping shut.

He waited an appropriate amount of time before assuming he was asleep.

Dick turned down the volume on the movie they were watching. Robin Hood hadn’t even made it to the sheriff’s tournament yet. He carefully removed the plate and single pizza crust from Damian’s lap. Slowly, as not to jostle him too much, he pulled the bed covers up so they tucked over Damian’s lax arms. It was a testament to whatever that cough medicine was that Damian didn’t even twitch.

The urge to push his hair back from his forehead was strong. Dick resisted.

Alfred had left the contact-free thermometer on the bedside table. Dick quietly scanned Damian’s forehead for a checkup.

101.9 degrees Fahrenheit. His temperature had risen, as expected.

Dick had experience with fevers, now. Damian had spent his first several days home fighting an infection that had him coasting the line between a “fixable” and “dangerous” temperature. Dick and Alfred had had to take turns constantly monitoring him, keeping cool packs tucked around his body, keeping him hydrated via IV fluids, and convincing him to sip on light soups when he was awake enough to do it.

This fever wasn’t high enough to warrant that amount of anxiety. (Yet.) Dick crept out the door with his phone to shoot a text to Alfred, anyway. Just in case.

Unlocking his phone was a mistake. There were several missed calls – some of them from before he had left the office – and he could clearly see the number of unopened emails waiting for him.

He sighed and sent his message to Alfred. He had missed too much work recently. His coworkers were nice about it, many of them having kids of their own, but at some point things had to get done.

The clock read 4:12. He could get a little bit of work done to ease his conscious and come back to check on Damian in an hour. Decision made, he gathered his briefcase and laptop where he had left them in his haste to return home.

Damian’s outburst earlier had been surprising. A fit like that wouldn’t have been uncommon during their first month living together, but the kid had been mellow (well, mellow for Damian) since he gave his statement as Robin. Dick had assumed it had something to do with whatever pain meds Alfred was giving him.

It clearly was not.

He would normally work from his own bedroom, but he wanted to be closer to Damian’s room in case anything happened. The study was right across the hall. If he left both doors open, he could even see into Damian’s room.

He paused at the study door, briefcase in hand.

The last time he had been inside was with Bruce. It hadn’t been a significant day. Dick had popped by the manor to say hello while he was in town. In typical fashion Bruce had been so focused on his work he had missed the call for dinner, so Dick had been sent to fetch him. At his voice, Bruce had finally glanced up, and that familiar look had crossed his face. It was the one he reserved for family, the one that glowed with hastily tamped-down joy.

_“Hey, Dick.”_

Dick pushed the door open on silent hinges. He almost expected to see Bruce there, wearing that same expression.

The room was empty.

Dick shook his shoulders out of their slump. His fingers mechanically flicked the light switch.

Alfred must have been inside a few times; the room was spotless. The curtains were drawn back, letting sunlight pool on the plush carpet, and keeping alive the plants that had been strategically placed to hide the unfixable stains left by wayward children and stubborn vigilantes. Dick trailed his fingers over the glossy wood on the desk as he rounded it, remembering the way he used to breathe over it and doodle in the fog when he was younger.

Bruce’s chair was adjustable. He’d always kept it pumped up to the highest setting to accommodate his height. Dick felt kind of ridiculous when he sat, the balls of his feet skimming the floor beneath them. But he couldn’t imagine changing the setting now.

Pictures of Bruce’s parents, and of Dick and Jason and Tim, were displayed proudly on his desk, next to the various knickknacks they had gifted him with through the years. Dick idly fiddled with a tiny model of Newton’s Cradle that Tim had gotten from the National Air and Space Museum in D.C. The clacking of the weights was loud in the quiet room.

He made the mistake of closing his eyes.

The smell of Bruce’s cologne came to him, and the wave of _loss_ that followed was overwhelming.

He was never going to see _that look_ on Bruce’s face again.

His chest tightened and weighed down, like his heart had been replaced with a sandbag.

He left, closing the door firmly behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the ending is abrupt but in my defense I have eaten cottage cheese and bean soup for three days now and it has liquified my brain


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: nightmares, delirium caused by fever, vague allusions to previously-sustained injuries, mentions of difficulty breathing due to pneumonia

Damian couldn’t move.

He was trapped. The all-too-familiar weight of the collar was snug around his neck, the metal hard against his collarbones. Heymann had left him tethered to the floor in the basement, and Damian couldn’t raise his head more than a few inches before the chain would pull taught.

It was freezing. The cold air was a soothing balm for his back, but his hands and his feet had gone numb a long time ago. He couldn’t stop _shivering_.

The worse thing was the dark.

There were no windows in the basement. Heymann had turned off the upstairs lights when he left, so the usual band of dim light from beneath the door had disappeared. And Damian _couldn’t move_ , so he couldn’t activate the motion detectors.

He had trained for this. He wasn’t afraid of the dark.

It didn’t matter whether his eyes were open or closed; the darkness didn’t change. He left his eyes shut to pretend it was under his own power.

He didn’t know how long he had been there. He didn’t know how long he was going to be there.

The noises were getting to him.

The tiny space heater would click on and off at regular intervals. When it was on, it offered a low hum that drowned out the silence. But when it was off, the room was quiet as a grave.

It was the closest he had ever felt to being dead.

The floor above him creaked, and Damian decided that was worse than the silence. His heart jumped, and he strained his ears to listen for the rest of the footsteps that would signal Heymann’s return.

After what felt like hours, he began to feel disappointed when the man didn’t appear.

Something shifted against Damian’s side, and he tensed all over. His eyes flew open, and he pushed the intruder away wildly.

His hands met soft fur. A confused whine left Titus’s mouth. The bed shifted as the dog followed Damian’s silent orders, shifting down to the foot of the bed again.

Damian barely noticed.

The room was dark.

How long had he been asleep? Last he remembered, the sun was out, and Richard. . . . Richard had been sitting next to him.

He was alone.

It was dark.

He couldn’t see anything.

He couldn’t move.

No, he could. He could move. And there was a lamp on his bedside table.

Damian blindly reached for it. Someone must have shifted it aside to make room on the table, because on the first pass Damian couldn’t find it.

He wasn’t afraid of the dark. But when his second attempt found nothing, he shut his eyes to prove it.

He reached further for the third attempt, twisting slightly so he could reach further. His hand thwacked against something solid, and that something solid teetered away from him. It was reflex to twist further to extend his reach.

Damian yelped at the sharp pull of his ribs.

The lamp crashed off the table. Damian tumbled down after it.

Titus leapt from the bed on silent paws and sniffed at him in worry, tail wagging nervously. Damian pushed himself onto his side enough to extract an arm so he could pat the dog’s muzzle. “Titus.”

From his place on the floor, Damian could feel the vibrations as heavy feet raced down the hallway outside.

His ribs throbbed with a sharp ache. He began coughing.

Damian squeezed his eyes shut against the reflexive moisture gathering there. He used his elbows to prop his upper body up, and Titus whined but stepped back to make room for him to sit up. A wave of dizziness, as though he were caught in a tide, washed over him and he slipped down to his stomach again, gasping for air.

He hadn’t hit his head. It wasn’t a concussion.

The floor was cold _._

The door opened and the room immediately flooded with light. Damian turned his face into the plush rug under the sudden glare, hiss choked off by a wet cough. But he could finally _see_ again.

“Damian!”

Damian tensed as a large shadow fell over him. But Richard knelt down by his side, within reaching distance but not so close Damian could feel his body heat. He wished he could feel it. He hadn’t managed to drag his blankets out of bed with him, and was paying the price for it.

The floor was _cold_.

“Master Damian, what happened?” Pennyworth was by the door.

“It was dark,” he explained.

“Careful, there’s broken glass,” Richard warned. “I’m going to move closer to get some of it away from you, okay?”

Damian nodded into the floor. It was cold against his cheek. But at least he could see. His hand was brushed by a cooler one.

There was a sharp inhale. “Alfred, he’s burning up.”

Damian didn’t mean to cry. He could feel the cold tracks where a few tears escaped, travelling sideways down his face. “It was too dark. I couldn’t see.”

Richard hummed in a way that was soothing. “We’ve got to get you back in bed. Do you think you can sit up by yourself?”

The words floated around Damian, and he mechanically tried to push himself up again. He was more successful this time, able to pry his shoulders off the cold floor and tuck his knees under himself. Child’s pose.

But he couldn’t catch his breath after.

“It will be easier to breathe if you sit all the way up.”

Damian’s forehead was pressed to the floor. It was cold. It felt good though.

“Damian?”

A hand ghosted over one of his shoulders. Damian didn’t have enough energy to react to it.

When he didn’t flinch away from the touch, two hands wrapped under his torso and guided him upright, peeling his forehead and hands off the floor. The body behind his was warm. That felt good, too. Damian leaned back into it.

An arm slipped under his knees, another behind his shoulders, and he was swept up into that cozy and steady grasp. Damian tucked his head into Richard’s shoulder. “It was too dark,” he muttered again. “I didn’t want to go.”

He was lowered to his bed gently, but not released. Damian shivered, not quite able to catch his breath, and was relieved when Richard leaned forward over him. It was warmer that way.

“Back where?”

Damian pawed for his covers. Richard stopped him when he tried to pull them up over himself.

“Where didn’t you want to go?” Richard prompted again.

Another tear left a cool track down his cheek, absorbed by Richard’s shirt. “The basement.”

The arm behind his back pulled him in a little closer. It beckoned the memory of Heymann lifting him out of the sink and carrying him down those creaky stairs. Damian shook his head sharply, as though it would flick the sense away again.

Richard shushed him softly. “You won’t ever go back. I promise.” The arm under his knees disappeared. “We’ve gotta take your temperature,” Richard murmured into his hair.

Damian didn’t open his eyes, content with the darkness as long as he wasn’t alone. There was a beep, and Richard was breathing a long, loud breath into his hair again.

“Alfred?”

“He’s due for his next round of fever reducers.”

“Okay, Damian, I’m going to put you down, but not under the covers. You’ve got a fever again.”

Damian groaned. “It’s cold.”

“I know, I know. Alfred’s going to bring you some medicine for that.”

Fingers ran through Damian’s hair, and on instinct he jerked away from the touch.

The hand retreated quickly, along with the residual heat from the nearby body. “I’m sorry,” Richard whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He sounded so hurt by it. Damian locked his watery eyes with Richard’s. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Damian shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He grabbed Richard’s hands with both of his. “I’m sorry.”

Richard hushed him. His fingers curled around Damian’s, lightly, like he was afraid of shattering them. “I know. But you don’t need to be.”

Damian was sure he said more after that, but he couldn’t focus enough to hear the words, just the cadence and soft tone of his voice. It was like a lullaby.

He was quickly pulled back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dick huffed, swiping a hand over his face in annoyance. He had been working from home exactly two hours, and discovered absolutely nobody understood what “contact for emergencies only” meant. The hard copy of the budget he was supposed to be reviewing sat in a pristine stack on the kitchen’s breakfast table, untouched but for the title page. His phone and laptop had begun beeping the moment he took them off silent mode that morning.

227 unread emails. Dick filtered out anything with the word ‘memo’ in the subject line and narrowed it down to 146.

He had to save the emails for later; the paperwork was more important right now. He shut his laptop, stacked everything else he wasn’t supposed to be paying attention to on top of it, and swept it all to the side.

When he picked up the first page of the budget report, he discovered he didn’t have enough elbow room to comfortably write his notes.

He huffed again. The breakfast table was not big enough, but _no way_ was he going back to the office. He would just have to make more room. He stood from his chair and stretched before shuffling his things to clear counterspace nearby. Alfred wouldn’t be happy when he saw it; Dick would jump that hurdle when he reached it.

He hesitated before moving his last distraction. It was the only beeping object left on the table.

A baby monitor.

Damian, obviously, didn’t know he had it. The camera was tucked on a shelf far above the boy’s bed, where Dick had the perfect view of Damian’s dozing form and could hear each rattle in his breath as though he were right there.

It was the only reason he felt comfortable leaving Damian’s room at all. It had been a compromise during Damian’s earliest days back, a way for Dick to keep an eye on him while helping him maintain his sense of privacy and independence. He had forced himself to stop checking it a few days ago. But now. . .

Damian had gotten worse overnight. His fever had ebbed and flowed, despite the medication Alfred had given him. Apparently it was dangerous to suppress a cough caused by pneumonia; the cough medicine Alfred had given him helped thin out the mucous but didn’t help when the manor’s heating system began to circulate hot, dry air to combat the night’s chill. Damian hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few minutes at a time. His fever and exhaustion made him confused.

It was scary, seeing the normally calm kid act like that.

Dick picked up the monitor and checked the screen. Whatever Alfred had brewed in Damian’s morning cup of tea had finally relaxed him enough to pass out. His chest moved in that new, shallower pattern Dick had grown accustomed to. His hair was still tousled from where Dick had checked his temperature _one last time_ before peeling himself away to get some work done.

He still had fifteen minutes on the timer he set before he needed to go check on him again. Time to focus.

He held the first page on that stack aloft so it blocked the view of the monitor. _Wayne Enterprises Fiscal Budget_.

He wanted to fall asleep out of spite.

The familiar creak of the front door opening—the only piece of the manor that Alfred intentionally neglected—offered a welcome distraction. “Alfred?”

“I am here, Master Richard.”

Dick stood from his seat and rushed to the front door. Several bags of groceries hung from Alfred’s arms; Dick slipped them off without a word and headed back toward the kitchen, Alfred following.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the mess Dick had left inside. “There is a perfectly acceptable office on the second floor.”

Dick took his time setting the groceries out on the counter. It was an excuse to not let Alfred see his grin slip. “It’s a little stuffy for my taste.”

If Alfred could tell what he was thinking, he didn’t let on. “Very well.” His eyes landed on the half-empty pizza box, leftover from yesterday. “Perhaps I can convince you to eat a proper meal if you insist on being in the kitchen.”

Dick rolled his eyes dramatically and started helping Alfred put the groceries away. (It mostly consisted of taking them out of the bags and guessing as to how to sort them. Alfred had learned not to let anybody else attempt to match his organization skills.) “Aw, come on. Pizza includes at least two food groups. And this one had vegetables.”

Alfred gave him a blank stare. Dick wasn’t sure whether it was related to his pizza comment or the fact he had just placed a bag of potatoes next to fresh basil clippings. He backed away, holding his hands up in surrender. “Damian actually ate some.”

“I am aware.” Alfred sighed. “But pizza is not on his plan. His appetite has not returned, so I was hoping that a new variety of dishes would encourage him to eat.”

“Oh.”

“How is he?”

“Out cold. I think his P.T. finally tuckered him out.” He cast a sideways glance at the butler. “And the tea you gave him.”

Alfred neither denied nor confirmed Dick’s suspicions, instead rising on his tip-toes to slip a bulk jar of chickpeas into a perfectly-sized opening in one of the cupboards. “Fever?”

“No change; still too high. I’m due to check it again in a few minutes.”

Alfred hummed. “Attitude?”

Dick huffed a laugh. “You know Damian. He takes after his dad.” He couldn’t hold his smile as he continued. “He’s mostly been asleep since you left. And I didn’t say anything last night, but he. . . didn’t take it well when I told him we’d have to put off his lessons for a few more days.”

Alfred passed Dick an empty cardboard box. “Break this down, please.” His mouth was a thin line. “I expected as much. He was eager to begin activities again.”

“And then _I_ reacted badly.” Dick ripped the cardboard at the seams. “I snapped at him, and he froze up.” The cardboard creaked in Dick’s hands. “He thought I was going to _hit_ him, Alfred.”

The noise Alfred made wasn’t a happy one. “The boy knows you would never hurt him.”

“What if he doesn’t? What if that _monster—”_ Dick stopped himself, unwilling to voice the frustrations that bubbled to the surface. He remembered what Damian had said last night, half-delirious with fever.

_I don’t want to go back._

Alfred folded up his grocery bag thoughtfully. “Then we must convince him otherwise.”

Dick scoffed.

“You have done it before,” Alfred said, matter-of-fact.

He wasn’t wrong. But it had taken so much time, so much effort. And now it felt like starting all over again, except instead of tempering the kid’s bravado he had to coax it out again.

It was no use arguing with Alfred, even if Dick wanted to. So he changed the subject. “You were out longer than I thought you would be,” he ventured.

“Yes.” Alfred pointed to the bag of rice next to Dick, and Dick passed it along. This, Alfred emptied into a half-filled glass container on a lower shelf in the same cupboard as the chickpeas. “I had to take a detour on my return. One of the bridges was closed.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “That’s weird. They usually close just a lane at a time.”

“The signs reported construction.”

“During rush hour?” It didn’t make sense; even if Gotham was terrible, it at least knew not to close the escape routes.

“My thoughts, exactly.”

Dick’s voice lowered into something more serious. “Hear anything over the scanner?”

Alfred’s mustache twitched. “A robbery. Police suspected it was gang-related. There was a shootout.”

Dick’s lips pursed. “The gangs on the west side have been more active than usual the last few days. Think it was one of them?”

“Police were not certain.”

Knowing which gang was responsible for what was essential. A robbery could imply a new rivalry, or even a new gang. Nobody had tried anything like this in broad daylight for a long time, but in the current climate. . . Dick pinched the place between his eyebrows.

Crime was escalating.

“Master Richard?” Alfred didn’t wear his concern on his face; he wore it in his perfect posture. “Have you also taken ill?”

Dick shook his head dismissively, but when Alfred refused to accept his answer, he was forced to continue.

“Am I doing the right thing?”

Alfred didn’t pretend not to understand this time. “Is it the place for any one of us to decide what is right?”

Dick huffed, leaning against the counter until it dug into his back. “It’s only been a week, and Gotham is already starting to fall apart. All of the progress we made, after Bruce. . . “ he bit his tongue, unable to finish the sentence. “I can’t just let the city spiral. I should be doing something about it.”

“There is still a warrant out for Batman’s arrest.”

“It wouldn’t have stopped Bruce.”

“Damian would not respond well to it.”

“I know.” Dick chewed on the inside of his cheek. He stopped himself from admitting he didn’t want to leave him.

His timer went off. He walked over to the table and checked the baby monitor. Damian’s fingers twitched in his sleep; his cat had appeared at some point, and was pressed up along his fevered body for a nap. The sight made Dick’s heart twinge. Peeling himself away for work during the day was hard enough; he couldn’t imagine leaving him alone all night, too. “What would Bruce have done?”

Alfred stopped shelving groceries to give Dick a long look. “I believe you already know the answer.”

Dick’s chest tightened.

“But,” Alfred interjected. The butler rounded the counter, so nothing stood between them. “I believe the better question is whether you want to be Bruce.”

* * *

When Damian blinked his eyes open again, it was in spite of a dull headache and the stickiness of his eyelids. There was soft and rhythmic tapping near him. Grayson sat in the chair next to him, the light from the laptop screen the only thing illuminating the look of concentration across his face.

The radio was on, playing the news.

_“—two more confirmed deaths in the shooting in downtown Gotham last night. Local authorities are still investigating the suspected culprits, but they have not shared any updates on the case since this morning’s statement. On social media, many Gothamites have brought to question the involvement of the vigilante known as the Batman—”_

Damian realized his eyes had slipped shut again. He didn’t care enough to open them, exhausted.

Richard turned down the radio after a few minutes, probably to concentrate on his work. He started humming under his breath, barely loudly enough to make out a tune.

The sound carried Damian back to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this posted before a job interview so I can pretend this is why I'm nervous and not because of Real Life.  
> Thank you, everyone, for reading and leaving your comments! They really help fuel my writing and provide inspiration and joy on the hard days <3
> 
> I don't know anything about Bullock or Montoya, so I apologize if I've made them terribly out of character!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Bullock makes a derogatory comment about how Damian was conceived, this chapter heavily features being questioned by police

Dick’s knee bounced as he sat.

He watched Detective’s Bullock’s eyes glancing down toward his fidgeting feet and back. He knew it made him look nervous, like he had something to hide. But he couldn’t help it.

There was a clock on the wall of the room, and its ceaseless ticking was the only sign of the passing time. He sat in an upholstered chair that may have been comfortable once, on one side of the large wooden table that took up the majority of the room. The white lights in the ceiling flickered intermittently. If Dick didn’t remember that he had come of his own free will, he would have thought somebody had arrested him.

The call to the manor had surprised him; the request that he come to the GCPD at his earliest convenience had surprised him even more.

“How long will this take?” he asked.

Bullock gave him a once-over, unamused. “As long as it needs to.”

Dick remembered Damian how he had left him, drowsy on medicine and still running a fever. A ridiculous part of himself regretted not bringing the baby monitor.

“Sorry,” he tried, smoothing his irritation under some of that Grayson charm. “My brother’s home sick, and I hate leaving him alone so long.”

“Your brother? Is that,” the detective glanced at a file, “Timothy?”

Dick’s stomach soured. “No.” He hadn’t heard from Tim in months. “Damian. He’s new.”

“Wayne adopted another kid and then left for a months-long worldwide tour?”

Dick’s smile strained. “Damian is Bruce’s biological son.” When that seemed to raise more questions than answers, he added, “Bruce wouldn’t have done that if he had a choice. The timing wasn’t ideal, but Damian moved in because of some complicated family issues.”

Bullock snorted and muttered under his breath, “That’s what you get for sleeping around.”

Dick’s nostrils flared. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Bullock at least seemed sorry for being overheard. His next question sounded more curious and less accusatory. “Where is Timothy?”

The door opened with a click, and Detective Montoya stepped in, file in hand. She nodded at Richard. “Detective Renee Montoya. Thanks for coming in, Mr. Grayson.”

Dick nodded back at her, thankful for the friendlier face. Montoya didn’t seem suspicious of him, at least.

Bullock cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

It took Dick a second to remember his question. “Tim’s emancipated, legally an adult. I don’t know, I think he was travelling?” Last he’d known, Tim was somewhere in France. That was weeks ago. “Maybe he met up with Bruce?”

Bullock tapped his fingers against his opposite arm. “What have you been doing since Bruce’s disappearance?”

“He didn’t disappear.” Dick consciously released the tension in his jaw. “He’s on a trip. Should be on a cruise on the Mediterranean about now. I’ve been working, mostly. And taking care of Damian.”

Bullock nodded shallowly at his answer, thumb brushing his lip in thought. Dick was just about to cut in when the detective said, “You look tired.”

Well, _yeah_.

“I didn’t know I was coming in to be interrogated.”

Bullock’s chair creaked as he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “We will try to keep this short. You tell us what you know, and we’ll let you go.”

Montoya rolled her eyes and took the seat next to Bullock. “You can leave whenever you want to,” she assured. Then, to her partner, she added, “Give it a break, Bullock. He’s just here to make a statement.”

Bullock’s frown deepened, but he nodded. It was a gesture Dick had grown familiar with, living with the Batman.

Montoya nodded to Dick. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Dick said, letting some of his irritation slip into his voice. “Is this about Bruce?”

Montoya rested her elbows against the table. “We are investigating the death of one of our officers.”

Dick feigned surprise. “The one that’s been on the news?”

“We were hoping you could corroborate something the Commissioner said.”

Dick laughed fake-nervously, like he hadn’t been rehearsing his answers mentally for the last hour’s drive into the city. “I don’t have the best memory.”

Bullock grunted, “Do your best.” He pulled out his phone. “We recorded all incoming calls the Commissioner received while the threat against his life was still in effect. Imagine our surprise when we heard your call with him.”

Dick’s eyebrows furrowed. “Me?”

Bullock raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember? Listen to this.” He swiped through his cell a few times before an audio recording began to play.

_“Gordon.”_

_“Commissioner. It’s Dick Grayson.”_

_“Dick?”_

_“Alfred said you wanted to—”_

_“No, Barbara isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”_

Dick’s breath caught. He did remember this conversation.

 _“Sorry, Dick. This bodyguard business has gotten out of hand._ ”

Dick lifted a hand, and Bullock stopped the recording. The detective was smirking. “It jogged your memory, huh?”

Dick nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure what angle they were playing. Anybody who could hear the beginning would know that something suspicious had happened, but obviously they didn’t know what it was about, if they were asking him.

But Montoya had said they wanted him to corroborate what Gordon told them.

“Gordon asked me to call him when I could,” Dick started. Montoya clicked a pen and started to take notes directly into her file. “I thought it was because of the threats. He didn’t seem to trust anybody on the force, not even his own bodyguards.”

“What was the topic of conversation?”

“Barbara’s camera.”

“The _real_ topic.”

Dick licked his lips. Why would Gordon have told the truth? He could only hope doing the same would offer some explanation. “He was asking me to get ahold of Batman.”

The scribbling stopped, as Montoya looked up in disbelief. Not surprise, though, which meant he had said the right thing. “Why would he think you could contact the Batman? Nobody can do that.”

If the situation weren’t so tense, Dick would laugh at the irony. As it was, he shrugged. “Wayne Enterprises wants Gotham to be a better place, and so does the Batman. Bruce donated some of our tech to Batman, too.”

“Such as?”

Dick shrugged. “Security cameras. Anti-virus software. Simple stuff, available on the market. I guess Gordon thought we’d have a close enough relationship I could just talk to him.”

“Could you?”

These weren’t the questions he had prepared for. Luckily, he was a fast thinker, and the mythos surrounding the vigilante character was vague at best. “I didn’t have to. Batman called me, and I passed along the message.”

“You didn’t recognize the number?”

Dick shook his head. “It was blocked.”

“And when did he contact you?”

“Right after I hung up with Gordon. Maybe five minutes later.”

“And you told him what Gordon said?”

This was getting cyclical. “Yes.”

“And what was that message?”

“It was—” Dick paused, pretending to remember. “He wanted to meet with Batman, I think. Sometime that night.” He gestured at the phone with the recording. “If you replayed it, I could probably tell you when.”

Bullock opened his mouth to ask another question, but Montoya held up her free hand to cut him off while she finished scribbling notes. When her pen stilled, she clicked it closed and turned to her partner. “That lines up with what the Commissioner said.”

“I don’t trust it.”

“It gives Batman an alibi. Deal with it.”

“An alibi?” Dick asked. He racked his brain for the events of that night.

Oh.

That had been the night Heymann had set a building full of kids on fire.

“What does Batman need an alibi for?” He already knew the answer: Heymann had framed Batman for the fire and killings, so he could get the leverage he needed to keep Gordon and Batman from working together.

Bullock cocked his head to the side. “You ever meet Officer Michael Heymann?”

“Bullock—” Montoya warned.

“That’s the guy that died, right?” Dick bit his tongue lightly to encourage himself to control his expression. “No, I don’t think so.”

Bullock snorted in disbelief, but pulled out a picture without further comment. It was Michael, all right. Dick recognized it as the picture Michael had attached to his fake documentation.

“Oh,” Dick said. “Yeah, I think I recognize him. I only met him once, though?”

Bullock and Montoya gave each other a look. Montoya was the first to address Dick. “When did you meet him?”

Dick scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know. I guess it was just a few days before he died.”

She arched an eyebrow at him while he thought.

“Oh! No, it had to have been a Thursday; that’s when Alfred gets the chicken delivered, and I remember having chicken noodle soup.”

“You remember what you ate but not what day it was?” Bullock asked.

Dick smiled sheepishly. “I was going to bring some to Gordon, but I ran into Heymann, spilled it all over him. It’s hard to forget the look on his face.”

It was hard to forget the imprint of Damian’s teeth in his arm. But he couldn’t say that much to them.

“Did you notice anything off, or strange, about Officer Heymann?”

“Well,” Dick started, dragging out the syllable. He looked between the two detectives, fully aware his every move and word was being analyzed. He thanked his lucky stars they knew he had been an officer in Bludhaven; it gave him an excuse to notice more than he should. “He seemed. . . distracted.”

“Why do you say that?”

Dick shrugged. “I don’t know. He was late to his shift? And he had this bandage on his face, said he cut himself shaving.”

They shared a look again, and Dick waited the exact amount of time he had practiced before adding, “You know? I remember he said that, but he didn’t look like he had shaven in a few days, at least.” He crossed his arms. “Kinda weird, now that I think about it.”

Montoya clicked the pen in her pocket and started writing more notes. “He had a cut on his face?”

“I guess? There was a bandage on his chin; I didn’t ask to see it.”

Silence, as the two detectives shared more looks and Montoya kept scribbling in the margins of the notes. Dick wondered if this is how crooks felt when Batman and Robin had conversations without words. He shifted so his ankle crossed over his knee under the table, a pose that both fooled ‘body language analysts’ into thinking he was being honest and allowed him to bounce his foot a different direction.

“Is there anything else you noticed?” Montoya asked.

Dick made a show of stopping his foot-tapping to think. “Well—no.”

Bullock leaned in, bracing his elbows on the high table.

“It’s just. . .” Dick laughed nervously again. “You guys are on a force, you know how it is. He seemed like one of those ‘macho men.’ I get that he was probably under a lot of stress, what with being Gordon’s bodyguard, but he was controlling. And he _flipped out_ when I accidentally spilled that soup on him.”

He got a snort for his choice of words. He wasn’t quite sure which detective it came from.

“He just seemed angry.” Dick shrugged. “Trigger-happy.” He fought not to look at Bullock too pointedly. “You know the type.”

Montoya didn’t write any of that down. Dick didn’t expect her too; it was hardly usable evidence. But hopefully if he could plant that seed of doubt in their minds, it could influence whatever they were finding.

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson,” Montoya said. “You can go.”

Dick nodded. “Yeah, anytime.” He pushed his chair back, eager to get back home.

“Before you get too comfortable,” Bullock cut in, “I have a few more questions for you.” Montoya shot him a look, but he ignored it.

“Sure.” He adjusted his posture so he looked less anxious than he felt. He hadn’t been expecting more questions. “Shoot.”

Bullock pulled a few printed photos from the file. “Do you recognize any of these?”

Dick barely needed a glance to recognize them as the bugs Heymann had planted in Gordon’s office. Apparently the ones Batman had planted had gone unnoticed, or, more likely, Gordon had kept them a secret after their disposal. It didn’t answer why Bullock was asking Dick Grayson about them.

Dick pointed at the smaller squares off to the side. “Those look like memory chips?”

“You have never seen these before?”

Dick shook his head. “No. I don’t know what they are.”

“These were found planted inside the Commissioner’s office after Heymann’s body was recovered. They are spyware.”

“Oh.” He reached for the paper, then hesitated. “May I?”

Bullock passed the picture to him, and Dick pretended to study them. “You think somebody was spying on Gordon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that explains that phone call, then.” Dick peeked over the edge of the picture, and Bullock was staring intently at him. “What? You think it was me?”

“No,” Montoya said.

Bullock ignored her. “Why were you in Gordon’s office that day?”

“He’s a family friend. I wanted to check on him, with everything going on.”

“Why didn’t you—"

“ _Bullock_.” Montoya ducked her chin, took a breath, and raised it. “Mr. Grayson, that’s all of the questions we have for you. You are free to leave.”

Dick nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”

There was a tense silence as he left. He could have cut through the air between the two detectives with one of his escrima, and they weren’t even sharp.

He hid his clenched fists in his coat pockets as he left.

* * *

Damian woke up when Alfred, his cat, affectionately sank his claws into his thigh.

His back and forehead was sticky with sweat, and he grimaced at the damp feeling of his dirty clothes.

His chest didn’t feel as tight as it had before. That much, at least, was good.

He floated around the edge of full awareness for a while, content to drift through the remnants of fever-fueled dreams until he was forced to face the world.

There was a quiet knock on his door, and Damian was fully awake by the time Richard had made it to his bedside.

“Hey, Damian,” Richard greeted. He had traded his button-up for an oversized sweatshirt since Damian had last seen him. He looked tired, but his crooked smile grew when Damian peered up at him. “How are you feeling?”

Damian tutted in lieu of stringing words together. Despite knowing he had slept for the better part of the day, he was still tired. “What time is it?”

“Seven in the evening.”

Great. He had lost an entire day, then. He adjusted a pillow so he could sit up a little more fully, then noticed that Richard had something in his arms. “What is that?” he asked, gesturing to the oddly-shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“A gift,” Richard hummed. “Here, open it.”

Damian took the package and tested its weight in his hands. He had been half-expecting it to be a plush animal, knowing Richard’s penchant for sentiment, so he was surprised when it was solid. It even had some heft to it; it was sturdy.

Damian glanced briefly up at Richard. The man was watching him with a look of intense hopefulness.

He peeled back layer after layer of brown packing paper, the object slowly taking shape. When he finally pulled away the last layer, his breath caught.

It was a little porcelain bird, about the size of a human heart. It was cool in his hands, and smooth to the touch. Damian held it up so he could examine its details around its face; its head cocked up as thought singing. “It is beautiful.”

Richard was grinning. “That’s not even the best part. May I?”

Damian obliged, handing the bird over again with no small amount of curiosity. Richard pulled a cord from his back pocket and plugged the base of the bird into the wall next to Damian’s bed. He tilted the bird toward Damian in invitation, and after a moment of hesitation, Damian tapped it.

The bird responded immediately, a warm yellow glow emanating from its belly like it had swallowed a drop of sunlight.

Damian lost his words.

Richard seemed happy to fill the silence. “It’s a nightlight.” He set the bird on Damian’s bedside table gingerly. “You can tap it anywhere to turn it on or off.” He illustrated a few times, making the bird’s belly glow wink in and out.

Damian suddenly remembered his bedside lamp, shattered in his clumsiness. He looked past the bedstand, but there was no sign of the mess he had made the night before.

Richard followed his gaze. “Don’t worry about it,” he assured. “Alfred and I cleaned it up. It was an ugly lamp, anyway.”

He was trying to make Damian laugh, but Damian wasn’t quite able to coax the spark of humor into a flame. Still, he mustered a smirk. “It was.”

He tapped the bird, and it lit up again, emitting a soft sphere of light. “Thank you.”

“Wow, you really are feeling crummy, huh?”

“Tt.”

“I’ll go let Alfred know you’re awake. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s been overcleaning for days now.”

A thought occurred to Damian, and he called out before his brother was able to slip away. “Richard.”

The man paused before turning around. “Yeah?” There were actual, dark bags under his eyes. His posture lacked its usual lightness, his step lacked its bounce.

“Have you been here the whole time?”

Richard tilted his head, studying Damian to try and figure out what he was getting at. “I had to run errands a few times, but I was mostly here. I told you I would be.”

“Then you have not gone out.” Damian licked his dry lips. “At night.”

Something shuttered behind Richard’s eyes. He shook his head. “No.”

Damian could only remember snippets off the last few days, rare moments he would wake up long enough to confirm he was home before being pulled back to sleep. He was almost never alone. Sun up or down, Richard had been there, working or dozing lightly.

He looked at Richard now, with the fresh knowledge he had been sick for _days_. Richard needed to sleep. In his own room, in a bed.

Damian twisted the sheets in his hands. Richard waited patiently for him to find his words; he was good at that. “I am too old to have a guardian watch me sleep,” Damian tried.

Richard’s smile was closed and crooked. “No, you aren’t,” he countered.

“It is. . . selfish, of me, to request that you stay with me at all times.”

Richard’s smile faltered.

“I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to spend another night in my room. I can take care of myself.”

Richard seemed to search for something, and when he didn’t find it, he leaned on the door frame. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and quiet.

No. “Yes.”

Richard’s forehead was still pinched with worry, so Damian tacked on, “Your gift should greatly improve the quality of my rest, as well.”

One corner of Richard’s mouth lifted into an apologetic half-smile. “If you’re really sure. . . “

Damian nodded.

Richard took a breath. “Okay, then. Call me, if you need me.”

“I will.”

“Goodnight, Damian.”

“Goodnight. And thank you.”

Richard nodded, pushing himself off the doorframe and exiting. He left the door open, but Damian didn’t mind.

He leaned back into his pile of pillows, and Alfred made himself comfortable next to him. Damian turned so he could watch the bird glow.

His sleep was dreamless.

* * *

Dick didn’t return to his own bedroom.

Even Damian, in and out of wakefulness the last few days, had noticed Gotham deteriorating. The kid had had to basically forced him to do something about it.

Dick had spent too much time being selfish. He had work to do.

It was time for the Bat to return to Gotham.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, wonderful readers! I hope you all have been doing well! :) I'm really sorry I never got around to replying to all of the comments on the last chapter, but I want you to know that I read them all several times and I really really appreciate that you took time out of your day to leave them. Thank you! <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: reckless driving, off-screen guns, allusions to gang-related activities, discussion of treating and hiding injuries, sleep deprivation, scars

The cape and cowl felt even heavier, this time around. But where Dick had found the sensation cloying before, it was comforting now. It was protection. It made him feel stronger.

Dick’s reflection in the heavily-tinted windows of the Batmobile revealed the tiny adjustments he had made to the cowl, too. The ears were a little sharper, more aerodynamic. The nose bridge had more reinforcement. He had changed the shape of the opening for his lower face to hide the shape of his jaw a little better.

They were small changes, but may as well. The last suit had been tossed out. Alfred couldn’t get all of the blood out of it.

Dick flipped the dashboard lights dimmer so he couldn’t see his reflection anymore. The outside world sped past him, street lights zipping by so fast they were one blur in his periphery. Dick swerved around a parked taxi and was pleased to feel the vehicle keep traction on the pavement.

“Do be careful,” Alfred commented through his earpiece. “We cannot afford to waste another week reinventing _another_ Batmobile.”

“Approaching the bridge,” Dick replied, ignoring the butler’s comments. “How do the roads look?”

“They are clear, sir.”

“Perfect.” Dick pressed down on the pedal more, and the car responded immediately, near-silent engines rising to a low hum as he picked up speed. He flicked his eyes down to the speedometer and back to the road a few times.

148 miles per hour and rising. He could do better.

“The drawbridge is rising,” Alfred warned.

Dick punched the pedal down, and the car kicked as it ratcheted up a gear and roared even faster down the road. He would have to adjust that later. He couldn’t afford to waste a second.

The drawbridge was within his sights, now. He squint at it. The level crossing signals were lowering, but he wasn’t worried about them. The car would cut through them like a hot knife and butter. No, the bridge was being raised faster than he had anticipated.

He tapped the dashboard, like it would encourage the vehicle to go any faster. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”

“Sir, the bridge—”

“I know what I’m doing.”

He angled the car so the signs broke harmlessly on armored reinforcement and sped down – or rather, _up_ – the bridge.

“Sir!”

“This is it!”

Dick bared his teeth as the end of the bridge rushed toward him. On the horizon, all he could see was hazy night sky.

He flew off the edge.

It took a half second for the car to slow down, and then when it started to dip through the air Dick whooped, savoring the familiar feeling of his stomach floating inside his abdomen.

“Master Richard!”

He cracked a grin and smashed a new button on the console. “Deploying wings.”

The car shifted, air drafts coming off the water and battering at the newest accessories on the car before stabilizing. Dick leaned back in his seat and pulled on the steering wheel, and the nose of the car levelled out, then up, and he spun high up into the night air.

Flying Batmobile. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

He waited until he spotted the beginnings of frost on the windshield before levelling out again. Heart pounding, he pulled his cowl back – there was nobody to see him up here.

“Batman? Are you there?”

“Penny-One, activate autopilot.”

“So you _are_ alive.” There was a soft click over the line. “Autopilot activated.”

Dick released his grip on the steering wheel slowly, to be sure it had worked. He grinned like an idiot when the car stayed steady, cruising over Gotham smoothly. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“When you said you wanted to test out the new model, this is not what I had thought you meant.”

“But you wouldn’t have let me do it if I had told you.”

“Precisely.”

Dick snickered, not at all chagrined by Alfred’s tone. The world outside was small, blinking lights. He leaned over, feeling the balance of the car adjust accordingly, so he could get a better look. “Wow.”

He had seen the view a hundred times before, riding piggyback with Superman or co-piloting the Batplane. But he didn’t think he would ever get tired of the sight. This far up, the haze of the fog rising from the water refracted the light, casting a kind of glow around the city. Cars the size of ants navigated the maze of nearly-empty streets below him; tired workers and parents and party-goers returning home for a night’s rest.

It was almost peaceful.

He turned to his passenger seat to voice his observations, but pulled up short when he remembered the seat was empty. Damian had had a long day, supervising the final touches on the vehicle. (Not that Dick would let him out in the field again until he was legally an adult, anyway.) “Is Robin still awake?”

There was shuffling, as Alfred no doubt checked the baby monitor. “He is sleeping soundly.”

“Good.” Dick rolled his shoulders back. He had altered his workout routine leading up to tonight, to make up for what he had lost during his break. He was paying for it now. “Remind me to tell him his blueprints worked.”

“I will.”

It wasn’t like Damian wouldn’t be asking him about it every chance he got. By the time his fever had broken, he had been chomping at the proverbial bit for something to do. No way would he be allowed to begin training again, and he was too out of it to restart his regular lessons. But he had a knack for engineering; he practically breathed machines. (He must have gotten it from Bruce.) The vehicle was something he and Bruce had been working on ‘before.’

It was damn impressive.

The ability to hover over buildings and alleys was great for sightseeing and getting around, but basically useless for stealth and observation. Dick landed and parked in an empty parking lot and began his first night back on patrol.

Alone.

He had no problems spooking off the odd mugger and drug dealer by himself. Even when he had to use force to subdue somebody too high to be driving, he was fine. In some ways, it was nice; reminded him of his time in Bludhaven. Nobody to answer to, nobody to worry about. Nobody complaining about his joy when he stood on his hands to think.

But he found himself reflexively checking that Robin hadn’t fallen too far behind.

He had just realized he wasn’t running as fast as he could when the pop of a gunshot echoed off the buildings around him. His feet skid on the gravel of the rooftop as he pivoted toward the noise.

“Penny-One, do you have eyes on 12th Street?”

There was soft clicking of the keyboard. “Yes. What am I looking for?”

“Heard gunshots.” Dick crept to the ledge of his roof to peer down over the edge. “Well, just one. But this is Tin Dragon territory.”

At least, it had been, before Heymann had blown up their headquarters. Dick wasn’t even sure if the gang was still around. All the more reason to find shots concerning.

“I don’t see anything on the—three cars, headed your way.”

He didn’t have to wait long to find the action; it came to him. One car careened around the corner, nearly fish-tailing into the street light on the opposite side of the road before gaining traction and squealing down the road at high speed. Two more cars followed, both more prepared for the turn but losing ground in their pursuit as a result.

Dick used his lenses to zoom in on the first car as it passed beneath him. From this angle, all he could see was a gloved hand on a steering wheel and an open duffel bag in the back seat. He couldn’t make out what was inside.

“Three cars, headed west on 15th.” He squint down at the pursuing cars as they passed. One was an old red Volvo, and its fender was practically rusted away. The other looked like it had been lifted from a soccer mom’s driveway. Neither cars were an uncommon sight in Gotham, especially on _this_ side of Gotham, but it was uncommon enough for a gang member.

Dick pulled out a tiny gun and shot a tracking device at the third car. It had a license plate taped in the window. Dick rattled it off over the comm to Alfred. “Can you run this license plate for me?”

“Of course.”

“Track that signal, too. I want to know where it ends up.”

“You will not pursue?”

“No.” The cars were moving too fast for him to catch up, at this point. But he had clearly seen a gun in at least the second car’s windshield, and the road was otherwise clear. If the second set of cars wanted the first driver dead, they would have taken the shot. “I think they’re running _from_ something.”

Dick looked back to the corner they had appeared from. Nobody appeared to be chasing them, but it wasn’t necessarily indicative of safety for the drivers. Organized crime had ways of pursuing people without the grunt work of a car chase.

“The license plate came back as belonging to an Andy Russo. Arrested on charges of petty theft sixth months ago.”

Dick watched the cars as they disappeared around a corner further down the street. “You have a signal from the tracker?”

“I do. The cars appear to be headed for the nearest on-ramp for the highway.

He waited a minute to be sure nobody else would follow before shooting his grapnel and swinging down off the roof. “I’m going to investigate.”

“Do be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

He could hear Alfred scoff from the other side. It was enough to make him smile.

He turned the corner the cars had come from and found another empty road. A stray cat saw him and ducked behind a stack of trash next to the road.

He found skid marks a few blocks down that led away from an alley between a convenience store and a high-rise apartment building. He scanned the area for heat signatures before entering – he had promised to be careful, after all – before slipping through the entrance.

It smelled dank, but there was the sharp smell of fresh paint on top of it all. When he had made it a few yards in, his foot met an empty can that rattled down the alleyway.

It was spray paint.

He followed the acrid smell of wet paint deeper into the alley, until he came across the bare concrete wall of a half-demolished building. The sneering face of a graffiti dragon had once taken up residence of the space. It was the mascot of the gang Batman and Robin suspected had taken control of the area.

Now, the tag was nearly indiscernible from the rest of the graffiti on the surface. The spiky tag of a gang that controlled the drug business on the east side partially covered the dragon’s face. The signature stars of the group that policed the neighborhood around the north bridge speckled the surface. There were other symbols, too, but they were nearly impossible to make out in the mess of paint.

One stood out.

It was still fresh; the Batman’s penlight reflected off the paint where it dripped down the wall. It was also big, though. He stepped back, trying to get the full image to decipher who had most recently taken control of the neighborhood. The alley was too narrow, and his back met brick.

“Can you isolate the newest layer of paint to find the symbol?” he asked Alfred.

“Of course, sir.”

His cowl made nearly-inaudible clicking noises as the digital camera built into his lenses took high-def pictures and sent them to the Cave.

While he waited, he examined the ground beneath the wall for more clues. He found a newspaper, dotted with the black paint of the east side’s tag, that dated it to about two weeks ago. And _that_ meant the other, overlapping tags had to be even more recent. He whistled under his breath at the realization: the territory was highly disputed. He had been gone too long.

Cigarette butts and broken bottles aside, there were more empty spray paint cans littering the alley. Several of them looked new.

He spotted one _covered_ in paint. Black paint. It was weird, right? He got closer to examine it and realized there was a small hole travelling clear through the can.

A bullet hole.

The paint was still tacky; it had been shot recently. But it had to have been shot somewhere else; the pressurized can would have sprayed paint everywhere, but there was only the bottle here. He hadn’t passed it on the way in.

He eyed the mouth of the alley, on the other side of the demolished building. It had to come from that direction.

He crept silently to the edge of the alley, sticking to the shadows. The other end opened up to a dismal but not unfamiliar scene: a few apartments and a factory, tucked around the beams supporting the elevated train rails. The smell of paint was even thicker, here.

Dick scanned the edges of the darkness for any movement, any other signs of life. He didn’t find any, so stepped out of his hiding place to investigate.

In his experience, the gangs liked to hang out under the train support. It provided cover, and the only people who were around were the ones too poor to afford better housing and too vulnerable to mess with them. He picked through the garbage piled in the gutters and ducked under the lowest diagonal beam supporting the train’s weight.

He found bullet casings first, glinting in the moonlight that seeped through the railway above. They were still warm, when he picked them up to place in his evidence bags. A few feet away, he found a splotch of wet black paint, spread in a radius of nearly ten feet. So someone had fired at the guy—he mentally recalculated, because there had been three cars— _guys_ doing graffiti, but not to kill. Just to scare them away.

“Sir, I believe I have the results.”

Dick tucked the bullets into his utility belt. “Send them to my feed.”

Dick waited while the picture loaded, a tiny rectangle in the upper right corner of his viewport. It took him a moment to make out the shape.

“It’s a bird?”

“I believe it’s a hawk.”

Dick navigated through his controls so the view was larger. “No.” He looked at the red paint, the flames lost in the mess of faded illustrations and graffiti along the bottom of the ridge. “It’s a phoenix.”

Maybe it was the Tin Dragons, choosing a new mascot to make a comeback?

But his mind strayed, looking at the paint splotch on the ground. Where was the new graffiti? Every tag under the rail system was old. He studied the support beams around him and found only the usual tags. Nothing that would warrant as much paint as he could smell. He even scanned the ground, but there was nothing but trash.

The structure around him rumbled. He startled, flicking the light upward.

And, well, this wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Penny-One, are you seeing this?”

An answering gasp confirmed the butler had tuned back into his cowl feed. “My God.”

As a train barreled past, over his head, he marveled at the massive, dripping, black bat symbol on the underside of the tracks.

And around it, in red bargain-brand paint that dripped like blood, were the words “Common Enemy.”

His limbs were heavy with fatigue by the time he returned to the Batcave. As the ceiling of the Batmobile lifted, Dick stretched his arms over his head and earned a satisfying crack from his back for his efforts.

“Richard,” Alfred started.

Dick held up a hand and pulled the cowl off his face. “I know; it’s late. But was I just supposed to let all those muggers get away with it?”

“You have a board meeting at nine.”

Dick peeked at the time on his dashboard and grimaced. He had to be leaving for his meeting in four hours. He muttered a ‘yikes,’ under his breath as he leapt out of the Batmobile. “Can we reschedule?”

“This _is_ the reschedule. You missed it when you were ‘out sick.’”

Dick groaned, dragging his hand through his hair and remembering belatedly that his gloves were still coated with the unidentifiable goo from the shipyard. Shit. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

Alfred’s mustache twitched, but Dick was too tired to analyze whether it was a pleased twitch or an annoyed one. Safer to assume the latter.

“Hey, first night back, and I didn’t get stabbed. That’s got to be a record, right?”

The smile he got from Alfred was far from amused. Figures; it was fifty-fifty. “I will have to order more of your concealer.”

Dick’s hand shot up to his jaw, where the skin was hot and tight. Oops. “I’m just a little out of practice. I’ll ice it after my shower.” He made a quick mental list: shower, stretch, and ice his bruises while he finished typing up his reports. He could probably squeeze it into an hour and a half, if he shortened his normal stretching routine. That left. . . two and a half hours to sleep.

Oof.

Dick headed toward the showers, eager to wipe off all the sweat and grime and get ready for bed. “Thanks for your help, Alfred. I can get it from here.”

Alfred made a face that subtly suggested disbelief, but he didn’t voice his opinion. “Very well, then. Do not neglect to ice your bruises; I will know.”

Dick raised a hand in acknowledgement as he disappeared into the changing rooms. Maybe, a month ago, he would have chosen an earlier bedtime over icing anything. But now he had suspicious coworkers, (and a detective?), to dodge, and he couldn’t take the risk.

He had to be careful.

* * *

Damian sucked in a sharp breath.

“I apologize,” Pennyworth said. His nimble fingers stilled. “Does this still hurt?”

Damian watched the butler brush a thumb over his wrist, but the feeling was dull. “No.”

He wasn’t lying.

He wasn’t telling the truth, either.

Pennyworth finished unwrapping his wrist and moved to the other one. Damian stared at his free hand.

There were scars.

He had expected them. He had been _told_ to expect them. But seeing them was different. Feeling them, after Pennyworth finished unwrapping his other wrist, was _different_.

Sensation was muted in those places where scar tissue had built up. He could trace the outline of where his shackles had been by touch, as though they had only just been removed.

Pennyworth watched him with a carefully neutral face. “Are you alright?”

Damian looked up from his wrists at the question. It was rare for Pennyworth to ask anything so directly. He nodded.

Pennyworth didn’t believe him, he could tell by the way the skin around his eyes tightened slightly, but he accepted the answer. “When you are ready, we will move on to your neck.”

Get it over with.

“I have been eager to be rid of the bandages.” Damian lifted his chin, granting easier access to his neck. “Do it.”

Pennyworth, to his credit, did not hesitate, but moved slowly. His fingers were as gentle as always as he removed the tape holding the protective layer down. Damian held stock-still.

His heart raced.

When he swallowed, one of Pennyworth’s fingers slipped, brushing his neck. Damian flinched back on instinct.

Pennyworth didn’t blink. “I apologize, Master Damian.”

Damian closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “No, I’m sorry.”

“There’s only one more piece I need to remove.” Pennyworth calmly rested his palms over his lap. He didn’t rush Damian to offer his neck again.

Still, frustration bubbled up under Damian’s skin. “I want to get it over with.”

“I understand.”

Damian growled. “But I can’t. It’s so—” he cut himself off, looking to the little glowing bird on his nightstand. It had been his constant companion these last two weeks, and even looking at it helped calm his racing heart.

“Whenever you are ready,” Pennyworth answered, when it was clear Damian wasn’t going to finish the sentence. “And not a moment before.”

Damian knew it to be the truth, and so took his time collecting himself before shifting forward again.

Without a word, Pennyworth finished removing the bandages.

When he had finished, Damian leaned back and lifted a tentative hand. He dropped it. He didn’t want to feel it. “I want to see.”

Pennyworth only nodded before shifting to his feet.

Damian was careful, stepping out of bed.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t stood at all in the last few weeks, but he hadn’t really been getting around by himself, either. Pennyworth was always ready to help him, always there to catch him if he were to stumble.

His weight rested squarely over his feet, and Damian took a moment to observe the distribution of his weight in his soles, the slight twinge in his healing ankle, before he rose all the way.

Pennyworth offered him a steadying hand, and Damian took it. He had learned the hard way not to test his balance. They slowly made their way to the adjoining bathroom, Damian taking small shuffling steps in an effort not to trip or otherwise disrupt an aching part of his body.

When they reached the bathroom, Damian gripped the edge of the sink countertop, just in case. He faced the mirror squarely.

Pennyworth flipped the lights on.

Damian felt a lump rise in his throat. He stubbornly swallowed it down. He would not cry, not in front of Pennyworth, at least. “Very well.”

He turned away from the glass, unwilling to look any longer. But he kept his eyes up, and his voice light, as he asked, “When will Richard return?”

Pennyworth offered his hand again, and they began their shuffle back to Damian’s bed. “He told me that he intends to go straight from work to the basement again, I am afraid.”

Damian’s grip tightened around Pennyworth’s slightly. “Oh.”

They reached Damian’s bed, and Pennyworth helped him climb into it and get settled. “He told me to wish you a good night.”

“He is a sap.”

Pennyworth’s mouth quirked upward. “Indeed.” As the butler pulled Damian’s sheets up, his eyes trailed down to Damian’s wrists.

He looked like he was going to ask something. Damian beat him to it. “Good night, Pennyworth.”

Alfred’s eyes rose to Damian’s face again, and he hesitated before replying, “Good night, Master Damian.”

Damian was able to hold his face steady until Pennyworth shut the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! I don't have much to say here, except a big THANK YOU to everybody who's been following this story! It means the world to me!! <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: grief, brief flashback

Grey light filtered under the curtains of Dick’s room. He took note of it while he changed out of his pajamas and checked his watch. 6:15. He’d have to leave for work soon.

His eyes were swollen and dry with his exhaustion. A small part of him was tempted to just call in sick; it wouldn’t be an outright lie. Between work and ‘work,’ he had barely found enough time to sleep in the last two weeks.

But with Bullock practically breathing down his neck, he wasn’t able to lie his way out of work. And although the news had spread that Dick Grayson’s statement gave Batman an alibi, Gotham was still on the brink of war. He wasn’t able to take a break from his night job.

He applied a few eye drops before heading downstairs. At this rate, he would have to start borrowing some of the energy drinks from Tim’s old stash. It wasn’t like he was around to notice.

He took the long way downstairs, to avoid passing the family portrait that always brought down his mood. But his feet slowed as he passed Damian’s room. After a brief moment of hesitation, he cracked the door open on silent hinges. He had managed not to hover by the door too much in the last few days, had even turned off and removed the baby monitor, but a not-small part of him insisted he check in before heading out. Careful to avoid the creaking floorboard at the entrance of the bedroom, Dick peeked inside.

Damian breathed deeply and slowly, swathed in his blankets and pets.

Dick allowed himself to watch only a moment. Warm feeling in his chest, he slipped away. He had work to do.

Alfred wasn’t around, but Dick’s breakfast already sat at the breakfast table: scrambled eggs and freshly-made biscuits with strawberry preserves. Steam rose off them in the early morning light, and the smell was incredible. But Dick bypassed the food and headed toward the pantry.

No sooner had his hand closed around the box of protein bars than he heard a throat clearing behind him. Dick whipped around.

“Was this morning’s breakfast not to your satisfaction?” Alfred asked. They both knew it wasn’t a question. “I could prepare something else.”

“Sorry, Alf. It looks good, but I just don’t have time this morning.”

Dick steeled himself and walked past Alfred into the kitchen, protein bar in hand. Alfred let him pass, but his eyes tracked the “insult to his kitchen,” as he had called it when he first found the contraband in the pantry.

“You did not have time yesterday, either.”

“That’s right; I had a meeting.”

“Nor the day before that.”

Dick could _feel_ Alfred’s eyes boring holes into his back as he packed his briefcase. “I guess not.”

“Then perhaps an adjustment to your schedule is necessary.”

Dick swallowed. He dreaded even suggesting it. “Yeah, I guess I should be getting up earlier.”

When he closed his briefcase to leave, Alfred was blocking the doorway. “Master Richard, I must _insist_ that you eat your breakfast.”

Prepared to quip, Richard grabbed for where he had left his protein bar on the counter. His hand closed around empty air. When he looked to Alfred in confusion, there it was, dangling from one of the butler’s hands like one would hold a dead rat.

Dick opened his mouth to protest. He didn’t have _time_ for this. But one look at the butler’s face made him second-guess his instinctual reaction. “Message received.”

“I’ll take your briefcase.”

Dick handed over his briefcase like he was being disarmed by one of Gotham’s Most Wanted. Alfred pointedly set it on the table in the foyer, out of sight and out of Dick’s reach.

Dick sat heavily in a chair at the table. The breakfast smelled even better from here. “Any chance you’ve brewed some coffee?”

Like magic, a mug of fresh coffee with the perfect amount of cream and sugar appeared in front of him. He took a sip and sighed at the flavor. After drinking the sludge that was the free coffee at the Bludhaven PD, he would always appreciate the real stuff. “Thanks.”

Alfred only hummed in acknowledgement.

Despite his earlier protests, Dick took his time eating his breakfast. It had been a while since he had last had a quiet moment like this, and he intended to savor it. Even if he averted his eyes from the empty spot across from him, where Bruce used to sit during their post-patrol snacks.

Alfred seemed content in letting him eat in peace. He flit about the kitchen, preparing what Dick assumed was Damian’s breakfast. It wasn’t until Dick was using his biscuit to mop up errant jam that the older man caught his attention again.

“Master Damian was up earlier than usual this morning.”

Dick paused, last bite of biscuit halfway to his mouth. “What?” He thought back to the peaceful scene he had witnessed upstairs just minutes ago. “He was up?”

“I caught him halfway down the steps when I rose this morning. He said he was getting a glass of water.”

Dick leaned back in his chair. This was why Alfred had asked him to stay later. “You think he was lying?”

“His hands were wrapped.”

Dick let out a slow breath. He couldn’t even imagine. . . Damian had trouble getting down the stairs, between his ankle and his ribs. He couldn’t even imagine him battering his hands so soon after regaining mobility in his fingers. “He was going to train, then.”

Alfred nodded. “I’m afraid so. I sent him back to bed with a glass of water and a warning. But I am afraid he will try it again.”

Dick drummed his fingers on the table. “He must have snuck right past my room. I didn’t even know.”

“He learned from the best.”

“Who, the League?” If Dick sounded bitter, it was because he was. “Yeah, I would imagine being forced to hide any possible weaknesses would help you learn to stay quiet.”

“All due respect, Master Richard, I wasn’t talking about his previous upbringing.”

Dick gave Alfred a look. “What are you trying to say?”

Alfred gestured to Dick’s empty breakfast plate. “He watches you. He is learning from _you_.”

When what the butler was saying clicked, Dick ran a hand through his hair. “This is different.”

Alfred only cocked an eyebrow in response.

Alfred the cat floated through the doorway, tail high, and meowed at Dick’s feet. Predictably, Damian followed not a minute later. He stopped in the doorway when he realized who occupied the kitchen.

Dick smiled, and despite his earlier tension it wasn’t forced. “Good morning, Damian. How are you feeling?”

Damian cast a suspicious look toward Alfred and back to Dick. “Good morning.” His voice was stronger now, not lost in a sea of crackles.

Presumably deciding he couldn’t do anything about whether Alfred had ratted him out, Damian made his way to the table, gait made awkward by his healing ribs and braced ankle. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah, I decided to take my time this morning. I didn’t want to waste Alfred’s cooking.”

As if on cue, a bowl of yogurt with fruit and granola slid in front of Damian’s seat. Three pills were set beside his glass of orange juice.

“Food first,” Alfred reminded, not having to look to know Damian was reaching for the medicine.

Damian tutted, but obediently ate a mouthful of yogurt before taking his medicine dry.

“So,” Dick started. “What’s on your agenda today?”

Damian’s shoulders stiffened, but they didn’t rise. His tone remained dry when he answered, “I will finish my lessons this morning.”

Dick paused, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t realized Damian had started them again. “Oh? What are you studying?”

Damian tilted his head in a shrug, which was suspicious until he continued, “I have been studying the human bust. I believe my hands are strong enough to attempt sculpting it now.”

Dick smiled. “That’s great! Do you need me to get anything for that?”

“TT.” Damian finished his mouthful of yogurt before continuing, “Pennyworth has taken care of it.”

Dick felt his expression fall but tried not to be hurt by the comment. He really hadn’t been around much, had he? “I bet it will be great.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly in an expression Dick had become familiar with: Don’t patronize me. But there was a faint flush to his ears, too. Not all was lost.

Chagrined, Dick checked his watch. Seven. He could still make it in on time for the conference call if he left now and sped a little.

He was surprised when Damian spoke up again. “This afternoon I intend to take Titus on a walk.” (The dog at his feet perked up instantly.)

Alfred made eye contact with Dick and raised an eyebrow. This was news for both of them.

Dick cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“He is very well-trained. He will not pull.”

“What about your ankle?”

“Tt. It will be fine. I will wear the brace, if it bothers you so much.”

Dick glanced down at Damian’s neck, where the collar of his shirt had ridden down.

Damian followed his gaze and dropped the spoon to adjust his shirt. “I can go on a _walk,_ Richard. It has been six weeks.”

“Your ribs aren’t healed yet. It’s not a good idea.”

“You can’t keep me—”

“You’d better let me come with you.” The words came without his own volition, but even as he spoke them the idea settled. “For my peace of mind.”

“. . . oh.” Damian’s face went blank. “But you have work.”

Dick made a brushing motion with his hand. The look on Damian’s face helped him make his decision. “I’ve been meaning to take a day off.”

“I will notify Mr. Fox,” Alfred interjected, before Dick could change his mind.

Dick watched him leave to make the call from the corner of his eye, fully aware this had been Alfred’s plan all along.

* * *

They went their separate ways for the rest of the morning, Dick occupied with work and Damian with his lessons. After several hours, Alfred stepped into the dining room, where Dick had taken up residence, and cleared his throat. “I believe Master Damian has finished his lessons.”

Dick nodded in acknowledgement and finished typing his email before shutting his laptop. “I’ll go get him.”

He found Damian in his room, sitting on a stool in his ‘art nook,’ though he would never call it that. He had replaced his easel with a short table, and he leaned over it with the focused intensity of an artist in ‘the zone.’

Dick waited in the doorway for a few seconds, happy to watch the kid work. When he realized Damian hadn’t noticed his arrival, he rapped gently at the door. “Damian?”

Damian jumped, sending his stool backward and to the floor. “Richard!”

Dick was used to the extreme startle reaction, and he was getting used to the warm feeling in his chest every time Damian used his first name. But his attention was drawn now to the clay on the table. It was the bust of a man with a square jaw and the beginning of what looked like a slightly-crooked nose. The rest of the details hadn’t been added yet.

“Who is that?” Dick asked.

Damian splayed himself in front of the table. “You’re not supposed to see it.”

“Come on, just a peek?”

Damian threw a sheet over the work and stomped across the room. “Let’s go.” He pushed Dick back out the door.

Dick craned his neck back to see it, but Damian closed the door hard behind them.

* * *

The sun was high and bright in the sky. Even so, the two of them trundled up in gloves, hats, and winter coats. Dick thought the scarf wrapped halfway up Damian’s face was adorable, but knew he risked being murdered in his sleep if he gave any indication of it.

“Titus, sit,” Damian commanded. The dog eagerly obeyed, tail drumming against the closed door in his excitement.

Dick bit his tongue as Damian prepared to clip the leash around the dog’s collar, resisting the urge to take it from him for the walk. Damian needed this. But it became even harder not to swoop in when he noticed Damian shudder.

There was a long pause, Damian’s fingers clenching around the clip and Titus’s collar.

Dick forced himself to listen to Damian’s breath speed up for five full seconds before opening his mouth. “Damian?”

The boy blinked, his breath caught, and in a flash he had clipped the leash on and stood to his full height again, as though nothing had happened.

It wasn’t the first time Dick had noticed something like this happening. Maybe it was selfish, or maybe just the years he spent living with Bruce, but Dick thought it would be better to let Damian approach him about it. He didn’t want to push him into that conversation before he was ready.

Damian offered the excuse, “I thought I saw a tick.”

Dick peeled his eyes away from the tremble in Damian’s hands and nodded. “You hold on to Titus. I’ll bring the chair.”

“I do not need it.”

Dick shrugged, knowing the argument had been coming. “Just in case.”

Damian only rolled his eyes before pushing out the door ahead of him.

Despite the sun, the sidewalk was lined with icy slush. The groundskeepers Alfred had hired had done a good job of clearing the path, so their booted feet landed against solid, dry cobblestone. Titus’s nose twitched at the fresh snow, but he stuck right next to Damian’s side, just like Damian had said he would.

“Where to?” Dick asked. He hadn’t spent much time outside without the cape, recently. He had forgotten how cold the air could be on his nose.

Damian just gave a half-shrug.

“Sounds good to me.”

Dick pulled the wheelchair backwards behind himself so it would be out of Damian’s eyesight for the time being. Its wheels still rattled along behind them.

They had no set path in mind; they let their feet carry them wherever they went. It wasn’t long before they had pushed through the tree line and the Manor fell out of sight. Damian’s eyes flit over the snow-laden branches and visibly relaxed. Dick couldn’t blame him. For as much as it felt like Dick had not been home more than an hour at a time, Damian had barely left its four walls in the six weeks since his rescue.

“It’s nice out here,” Dick commented.

Damian only hummed in response. Dick glanced to the side. Damian’s breath came a little harder than it should have for the amount of exertion they were taking.

“It reminds me of a place I visited with the Titans once,” Dick hedged. He carefully slowed his stride, hoping it was subtle enough Damian would match it without noticing.

“Oh?”

It was a request to continue the story, in Damian-speak. (Damian loved his stories about the Titans.) Dick was happy to oblige, launching into his memories of a snowy forest, the treasure lost in a frozen lake, and a villain with a pet mountain goat.

Dick was halfway through his third story about a mission-gone-sideways when he noticed it. Damian had tugged the scarf down at some point, and it revealed a hint of a smile.

It had been too long since Dick had seen that. They needed to do this more often.

“I need to introduce you to the team,” Dick decided.

Damian groaned. “I do not wish to fraternize with your incompetent allies.”

“See, that right there. Kory would find you _adorable_.”

Neither of them had been paying attention to where they were headed. So when the pebble Dick had been kicking along the path bounced back toward him, he froze in his tracks.

The private graveyard was serene, under the blanket of snow. The marbled headstones were like Alfred’s gardens: planted in immaculate rows and meticulously cared for. Dick’s eyes immediately sought out the gravestone he’d visited most often. It was the newest present, the words chiseled into the stone as yet unmarred by the acid rain that plagued the city.

BRUCE WAYNE

The footprints he had left with his last visit were still visible, crossed over only by another pair of feet, slightly smaller in size. A fresh bouquet of lilies, coated in a thin sheet of frost, rested at the foot of the grave.

As though he had trained the reflex on command, a lump formed in his throat. Dick stopped.

Wordlessly, Damian released Titus from the leash and, with a gesture, signaled the dog was free to go. As Titus nose-dived into the snowy bank, Damian stepped up next to Dick.

It began to snow while they stood there. Great fat flakes drifted down from the grey sky. Dick’s eyes tracked them as they landed.

The snow made everything quiet.

“I had not visited yet,” Damian whispered.

Dick had to figure out how to loosen his tongue before he could answer. “It’s okay.” He’d been there enough for the both of them. If Bruce could hear, he knew everything about Damian by now.

Damian shifted, his arms rising to cross in front of himself. Dick used to think it made him look arrogant, but now he recognized the vulnerability of the gesture. “I am afraid Father wouldn’t care for me to. . . that he didn’t. . .” he trailed off with a huff. “Forget it.”

Dick wanted nothing more than to pull him into his side and squeeze him, to bring that hint of a smile back. He stopped himself, barely. “He would. He did.”

Damian nodded solemnly, but Dick couldn’t tell whether he believed him.

“Pennyworth has been worried about you.”

It was said so softly, Dick almost missed it. When he had processed the words, he looked up from the grave to the boy standing next to him.

Damian wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Dick wanted to brush the comment off. He wanted to remind Damian that _he_ was the one who needed the rest right now. But something about the way he said it caught Dick off guard. He said it like it was almost a question, and coming from Damian, the observation was noteworthy.

Maybe Dick hadn’t been as subtle as he had thought.

Alfred’s warning from earlier was still fresh in his memory.

“Yeah. He’s always worried about me. It’s kind of his thing.”

Damian frowned. “ _I_. . . “ He trailed off, then lifted his eyes. “Why are you really here?”

Dick knew he wasn’t talking about the graveyard. He chose his words carefully, aware of how long it had taken him to earn Damian’s trust. “Because I’d be a hypocrite if I told you to rest and didn’t do it myself.”

Damian nodded, unsurprised. “He told you.”

Richard turned his back on the grave so he could focus. “I’m not angry.”

“You’re not?”

“I know I’ve said it before, but healing is hard.” Dick’s foot found that small rock again and he kicked it out of sight. “And it’s boring.”

Damian clicked his tongue. “But?”

_But it doesn’t have to be_ , Dick’s mind supplied. He shoved the thought aside, for now. “But I want you to get better, for real. Not the fake-better where you just ignore it and push through everything.” He gave the grave a pointed look, even if it hurt to do it.

A gust of wind blew snow off a branch above them. Damian craned his neck up to study the sky. “It’s getting colder.”

Dick fought to keep his eyes off the scars peeking out from Damian’s scarf. “We should head back.”

Damian gave a short whistle. Titus trot obediently back to them.

After getting Titus back on his leash, Damian hesitated. “Could you. . . I should. . .” he gestured at the chair, no small amount of frustration in his eyes. “My ribs.”

Dick smiled, brushing snow off the seat. “Of course. It’s why I brought it.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter was either going to be 2500 words or over 4000, so in this case I went with the longer section (so it would end on a nicer note than the short version would have.) I feel like it ends in an odd spot, but I wanted to include the fluff I wrote so you'll have to deal with it. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Damian self-victim-blames and has a small episode of self-loathing. If you are sensitive to this, don't read anything between "Another, larger part, with a quiet voice, whispered that Damian did not want to talk about Michael Heymann ever again" and the next section!  
> (only one warning? it's a miracle!)

Damian enjoyed quiet evenings with Pennyworth. It was a routine they had developed early on, but only now was Damian able to fall back into it.

He rested at the table in the kitchen, enjoying the sight of snow drifting down against the pink sky, leaving the manor grounds a serene, spotless landscape. His cup of tea was warm in his hands and rich on his tongue. It was a familiar blend, spicy and warm and perfect to counteract the slight chill caused by the weather.

“The tea is excellent,” Damian noted, interrupting the string quartet playing over the radio.

Pennyworth looked up from the kitchen counter, where he was working over a round of dough. It was mesmerizing watching him work carefully around his own cup of tea, sitting off to the side. His moustache twitched. “I am glad it is to your liking.”

Damian nodded and turned back to the window. Richard was rubbing off on him; he was finding himself moved to compliment people without any alternative motivations more and more often. He even found he liked it.

They continued like that for another several minutes, until the doorbell rang. Pennyworth rushed to dust off his hands. “He is late,” he muttered.

Despite the butler’s hurry, he wasn’t fast enough to beat Richard to the door. The sound of the solid door shutting was familiar and welcome; even more so the “I’m home!” called from the front of the house.

Titus stood to full attention at the noise. Tentatively, his tail began to wag.

Richard strut through the doorway with purpose, still shedding his winter clothes. “Hey, Damian. Hey, Alfred.”

“You are late,” Damian said, mumbling the words into his cup of tea.

Richard winced apologetically. “Traffic?”

“Master Richard,” Pennyworth cut in, in the dry tone that meant he was displeased. He rinsed his hands off before marching straight toward Richard, who looked as though he was facing the gallows. “Do not tell me this is what you have been wearing all day.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

It was. Damian and Pennyworth raised matching eyebrows at the offending piece of the outfit. “It looks as though your tie has gained sentience and staged a coup,” Damian offered.

Pennyworth reached forward and began fixing the sloppy knot, despite the fact Richard had clearly been planning on removing it as soon as possible. “I cannot let you represent the Wayne family dressed like this.”

“Aw, come on,” Richard whined. He winked at Damian, though, mischievous. “I’ve seen the pictures. You’ve let Bruce walk out of the house in worse.”

Pennyworth leaned back, and Richard’s tie was a perfect Windsor knot. “As I recall, I have let _you_ get away with atrocious outfits before.”

“It’s _style_.”

“Nothing will ever beat a classic suit,” Alfred quipped. Satisfied with the state of Richard’s outfit, he turned back to the counter and held a plate out for him. “Your dinner.”

Richard opened his mouth to argue, but one pointed look from the butler had him shutting it again. “Thanks.”

Richard stopped by the table and gave Damian the smile he never showed anybody else. “Hey.”

“Good evening,” Damian huffed, but there was no heat behind it.

Richard’s grin grew crooked. He was wearing concealer over the bruise on his jaw and the bags under his eyes, but though they existed they were not as pronounced as they had been before. His expression lacked the tension it had held a week ago, but his shoulders were still tight with anxiety. Damian suspected he and Pennyworth were the only ones who would be able to notice it.

“Mind if I sit?”

Damian released his tea mug with one hand to gesture the chair opposite his own. “Help yourself.”

Richard slid into the seat with his plate of sea bass, rice, and green beans. He moved with a slight stiffness that Damian immediately tracked. “You are injured.”

Richard grimaced. “Just tight.” As he sat, he used the table as a lever to help him twist around, and his spine crackled.

“How was work?”

Dick spoke through a few forkfuls of rice. “You know,” he tilted his head. “Same, same.”

“Did you have a board meeting today?” he asked.

“No, the board meeting’s tomorrow.” Richard took a long gulp of water. “I met with a potential business partner today.” Richard winced. “He wasn’t happy it was me and not. . . well, you know.”

Damian nodded and drummed his fingers against his mug. He was glad for the blanket in his lap, hiding the way he tapped his heels nervously on his chair legs. “Are you going on patrol tonight?”

Richard popped a green bean into his mouth and cracked his neck. “Yep. I should really be getting out there now.”

Pennyworth hummed in displeasure, the only indication he was listening in on their conversation.

“Do you expect trouble?” Damian hedged.

Richard swallowed. “The usual. Someone tripped an alarm in the Diamond District last night, but when I got there they had run. I think they’ll try again tonight, so I’ve got to keep an eye on the area.” He took a few bites of the fish, and called out, “Alfred, this is great.”

“I am glad you enjoy it. Please remember to chew.”

Dick rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Anyway, other than that, I think it will be pretty quiet. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Damian looked down into his tea to hide his suspicion. The news coverage seemed to indicate crime had been escalating; Richard continued to insist it was under control. “No gang activity?”

Dick shrugged. “Nothing has seemed out of the ordinary.”

He was lying. Damian could read it in the way his fingers clenched around his fork. He swallowed the urge to call him out on it, yet.

“I was wondering—”

“I was going to ask—"

They had both spoken at the same time, and blinked at one another.

Richard swallowed his food. “You first.”

Damian shook his head, his courage waning with the false start. “No, it is not important. What did you want to ask?”

Richard searched his face, but Damian schooled his expression so none of his nervousness showed. After a moment, he seemed to decide there was nothing to worry about, at least nothing he wanted to talk about right now.

He reached into his pocket and slapped a glossy brochure on the table.

Damian jumped at the motion of it, half-expecting a weapon. Before Richard could look guilty about it, he reached for the paper and studied the cover. “What is this?”

“Someone dropped off a stack in the lobby. The art museum’s doing a seminar.”

Damian flipped the trifold open to glance at the inside. He had been to the art museum several times, of course, as a civilian and as a vigilante. It had an excellent security system.

“Look at the schedule for the month,” Richard said, pointing.

Damian found it, and felt his heart race.

_Sculpting the Human Face: A Masterclass by Gian Mortella._

“Are you still working on that bust?” Richard asked.

Damian shook his head, closing the brochure and placing it gently on the table. “It is on a Thursday morning; I have my lessons. You have work.”

Richard flipped a hand back. “I’ll take a day off.”

Damian’s mouth pulled into a frown. “I thought you would not be allowed to do that anymore.”

Pennyworth paused at the sink.

Richard deflated like a balloon. “I. . . I’ll have to go in on a Saturday to make up for it.”

Pennyworth shook his head. “You must already go in Saturday for the benefit brunch.”

“Then I’ll go in Sunday.”

Damian swirled the last of his tea around the bottom of its cup. “You do not have to give up your day off for me.”

That tension lining Richard’s shoulders tightened. “I want to.”

Damian pretended to study the trifold again to mask the warmth in his chest at the words. There were examples of the artist’s other works, and they were very well-done. “I would not be opposed to attending,” he hedged.

“Great! I’ll let my secretary know tomorrow so we can work things out.”

Pennyworth did not have to look up from his sink of dishes to stop Richard from standing. “Dinner,” he reminded him, gesturing to the half-empty plate of food on the table.

Richard started to roll his eyes and then seemed to think better of it. “You know, I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t force me to eat.”

Pennyworth stopped his work to give Richard a look, one eyebrow raised.

Clear enough.

Richard huffed as he sat back again and scowled into his food. While he chewed another (much too large) bite of vegetables, his posture suddenly shifted. He tilted his head to the side to ask Damian, “What were you going to ask, before?”

The nervousness was back. Damian started to take a sip from his tea, before he realized his cup was empty. “It doesn’t matter.”

Richard was instantly on high-alert, his brows furrowed. “Are you sure? You feeling okay?”

“I am well.” Damian shifted. “Really, it is nothing important.” When it looked like Richard wasn’t going to take his words for what they were, Damian reached for a distraction. “You are going to be late for patrol.”

As predicted, Richard scooped the last of his food into his mouth. “Don’t think I don’t know that was a deflection,” he clarified. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Damian just scowled. “There is no need.”

“Uh-huh.” Richard stood and took his plate to the sink. “I’ll be back by two,” he promised Pennyworth.

Damian watched him disappear into the study, listened to familiar _chuck_ of the grandfather clock popping open and closing again.

Now that Richard wasn’t sitting across from him, Damian allowed himself to feel the curdling in his stomach.

Richard was hiding something from him.

Damian tried not to dwell on the thought, remembering how tired Richard had been. Of course being the Batman was difficult and stressful. Damian could see the signs of it on Richard’s body, even if his mood hadn’t revealed any of it. He was an excellent actor; he had been lying as long as Damian had been training with a sword.

He was hiding something from him.

Damian went through his usual bedtime routine, taking Titus outside before retiring to his room to finish his physical therapy exercises and prepare for bed. As he brushed his teeth, the thought of what Richard could be hiding continued to roll and clack around his mind like a billiard ball.

Sleep seemed far away. He lay in bed, absentmindedly petting his cat while waiting for himself to feel tired. After an hour, he huffed and sat up. He tried meditating, controlling his breathing and releasing his thoughts. But this was a thought he couldn’t shake.

Even if he was not allowed in the field, Damian was Robin. He needed to know how best to take care of his Batman.

He needed to know what was happening.

Mind made up, he quietly shut his pets inside his room and crept to the stairway. The house was silent, but it was what he had expected; Pennyworth typically travelled straight from the kitchen to the cave on patrol nights. He was likely already downstairs.

Exactly where Damian wanted him to be.

He used one of the less-used entrances to the Cave, knowing it was less likely to attract attention to himself. The cool damp air was familiar and bracing, helping harden his resolve to involve himself. He had been in the Batcave several times while recovering; he had helped Richard with the new Batmobile design, calibrating the flying machinery and supervising the (many, many) tasks he had not yet been able to perform himself.

But, at Richard’s insistence and under Pennyworth’s strict watch, he had not been allowed ‘downstairs’ during any of Richard’s patrols. Early in his recovery he had not been able to stay awake, anyway, but now he found himself growing accustomed to this _soft_ way of living.

He didn’t need eight hours of sleep each night; he was _Robin_.

Though it had been a while since he had been downstairs, he found himself navigating the darkness easily. He had neglected to find socks or shoes before leaving for his adventure, and he regretted it now; the stone floor was freezing beneath his feet. His toes tingled with the cold, the nerves still getting used to being used again.

Damian had made it halfway down the hidden stairwell when a voice made him freeze.

It was Heymann.

His breath caught in his chest. The deep, rumbling voice echoed loud in his ears. He could feel himself freezing up, adrenaline pumping. He reached a hand to the wall in a moment of weakness, to hold himself steady when it felt like his knees would give out beneath him.

The rumbling was difficult to decipher through his panic, but then a sharp laugh interrupted it. “Looks like you’ll be serving a different kind of _time_ , now.”

As the meaning registered, Damian relaxed. His knees did give out, slowly, and he sank carefully to the floor, out of sight of the rest of the Cave.

It was just Richard. As Batman.

“That joke was tasteless,” Pennyworth noted, dryly.

“Come on,” Richard sighed. His voice was still artificially deep, but lacked the edge that sent chills down Damian’s spine. “Most of them are already unconscious; they didn’t even hear it.”

“Luckily for them.”

There was a lull in conversation, the keyboard clicking taking over the silence. Damian used the rhythm to help time his breaths. His heart felt like it was trying to beat out of his chest.

He was debating returning to his room when Richard spoke again, this time his voice much more serious. “Are you seeing this?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“How many is that?”

“That would be the fourth this month.”

Richard swore under his breath, then quickly cut himself off. “Sorry, A.”

“I will allow it,” Pennyworth said.

Damian itched to creep further down the steps and see for himself what they were discussing, but something in their tones rooted him to the spot. A part of him greatly wished to return to bed and pretend he had not been there at all.

“You haven’t been letting Robin listen to the news, have you?” Richard asked. In the background, the quiet hum of the Batmobile restarting. “His question tonight was pointed.”

“I have done my best to curb it. But I am not able to watch him all day.”

“I know, I know. I just,” a sigh. “He’s going to find out.”

“He will find out,” Pennyworth agreed. “One way or another.”

“You think I should tell him myself.”

“Perhaps.”

Richard sighed. “It’s going to hurt him.”

Damian shifted. He balked at the idea of Richard hiding something from him for his own protection. Another, larger part, with a quiet voice, whispered that Damian did not want to talk about Michael Heymann ever again.

There was nothing else it could be about, was there?

Damian had killed the man, with his own hands. He had been too weak to defend himself, and too weak-willed to resist the man’s conditioning. He needed to accept that he had broken his promise to be better.

“Not knowing will hurt him more.”

“You know what he’ll do if I tell him. He’ll demand to be Robin again. I can’t—it’s not safe.”

Damian’s stomach sank. Richard didn’t think he was safe enough to be loosed in the city again. He had proven himself incapable of curbing his violent instincts, and Richard was taking the steps necessary to protect Gotham.

Was Richard planning to fire him, for good?

An ugly feeling, almost like nausea, rose through Damian.

Heymann had been right.

He sneaked back to his own room and crawled into bed, hoping this feeling would be gone by morning.

And he brainstormed what he would tell Richard, when he inevitably brought up what Damian wanted to talk about.

He wasn’t going to ask to be Robin, anymore.

* * *

“There’s nowhere to park,” Dick groaned, hitting his steering wheel before twisting to look behind himself to turn around. The parking garage by the museum was full, as had been the last one they had ventured into. The lights on the sign outside must have been broken. He should have expected as much, being in downtown Gotham.

“We could have taken the trains,” Damian grumbled.

Richard scoffed. Even he avoided those at all costs. “Uh-huh.” As he pulled out onto the street again, he said, “Watch the road for a parking spot?”

Damian clicked his tongue and crossed his arms in front of himself, but obediently looked out the opposite window to study the street.

It took a predictable few seconds for Damian to mumble, “I would be able to handle it.”

Dick sighed. “I know.” What he didn’t add was that he had taken the train to a meeting from WE a few days ago, and just stepping on the train had given him vertigo. He could still imagine Damian, small and fragile and _scared_ , caught next to one of the handholds in the middle of the car.

It wasn’t Damian’s fault they couldn’t take the train; it was Dick’s.

“I didn’t think it would be so busy on a weekday,” he said, instead of explaining any of that.

“There!”

They were still partners, in the field and out of it, and Dick’s reflexes meant he caught the open parking spot before the Honda was able to swoop in and steal it from them.

Dick watched with narrowed eyes as Damian heaved himself out of the car. The kid had to gain momentum to get to his feet, but when he got there he was steady. Dick would have to be sure to watch him while they were in the museum.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take the wheelchair?”

Damian blanched beneath his hat and scarf. “I do _not_ need it.” As if to prove his point, he stomped off back towards the museum.

Dick couldn’t help but frown at the sight. Damian’s mood had shifted in the last few days. Back to normal, some might think, but Dick thought he had been making real progress. The kid was on edge, reacting more explosively than usual.

Dick was determined to break him out of his funk. “Wait up!” he called.

Though rush hour was long over, the city was bustling with activity. The sidewalks were relatively clear, but cars lined either side of the streets. Dick could count three food trucks nearby: tacos, roasted peanuts, and hot dogs. He would have to see if one of them appealed to Damian, later, if the museum cafeteria proved tasteless.

A man jaywalked across the street, and a speeding car swerved around him and honked its horn angrily. Dick didn’t miss the way Damian full-body jumped at the sudden noise.

He started to step in closer, then thought better of it. “You okay?” he asked.

Damian shook his head and tutted. “Just startled.”

“Do you want to hold my hand?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Bruce wouldn’t let me walk without holding his hand until I was sixteen.”

“You are joking.”

Okay, maybe it was hyperbole. And maybe it was more part of their careful ruse than something Bruce or Dick actually needed, but still. “I won’t tell anybody,” he promised.

Damian’s gloved fingers flexed and loosened. He still shook his head.

Dick kept pace a few steps behind Damian, instead. Damian liked knowing his six-o’clock was covered. From this angle, he could read the anxiety in the kid’s posture, the chill. Though he kept his chin up and arrogant, his shoulders were unnaturally stiff. Most tellingly, he walked a large radius around any man they passed that was larger than himself.

Gotham by day was different than Gotham by night, and Dick realized with a sinking feeling Damian had not seen the streets in sunlight in _months._ Much less this many people at once.

“Come on,” he decided, changing tactics. He wanted this to be a good day, not one that would make Damian even more anxious. This was about getting out of the house, getting reintroduced to a world with good people in it, not just the bad. “Let’s get some peanuts.”

“The lecture will begin soon. I do not want to be late.”

“I already have our tickets reserved, and besides, we have plenty of time.”

Damian still hesitated, once Dick altered course toward the peanut truck. But a jogger passed between them and Damian tensed at the separation, slight as it was, and hurried to close the distance. “We had better not be late,” he grumbled.

“There are just two people in front of us.”

Damian grumbled something unintelligible into his scarf and kicked at some of the dirty snow piled up on the curb. A gust of wind blew down the street, magnified by the tall buildings to have pinpoint accuracy.

A chill ran down Dick’s spine, and he ducked his face down into his own scarf. “Are you cold?” he asked Damian.

Damian raised an eyebrow at him, gesturing to his hat, gloves, scarf, coat, and boots in one swooping motion. “No.”

Dick shrugged. “Just checking.” He needed to brush up on his frostbite information; he wasn’t sure if Damian’s fingers and toes would still be more susceptible to the cold months after the fact.

The line moved fast, and Dick ordered a big bag of honey-roasted peanuts. He let Damian collect the bag while he fished the money out of his wallet.

“Go ahead and try one,” Dick prompted.

Damian looked interested, at least, by the enticing smell. He popped a peanut into his mouth and chewed experimentally, his face scrunched in what almost looked like disgust but Dick knew to be contemplation.

“It is sweet,” Damian said, surprised. “And salty.”

“Basically crack,” Dick agreed, grabbing a handful from the bag and dumping them all in his mouth at once. He reached for the bag again and Damian tilted it toward him. He grabbed another handful, tilted his head back and threw a single peanut up, managing to catch it in his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Damian asked. His head was cocked to the side in curiosity.

Dick froze, peanut half-chewed mush on his tongue. “I used to do it with my parents.” (It was Bruce’s face that came to his memory as he said it. A sunny day, the silhouette of a laughing young man as he tried to coax the nine-year-old out of his grief.) “It’s just a trick.”

“It looks like a choking hazard to me.”

Dick rolled his eyes and popped another peanut into his mouth. “Alright, then, you try it.”

Damian looked down into the bag like he was planning a method of attack against it, then took a small handful and shoved the rest of it into Dick’s hands.

He threw a peanut up, and it landed on his cheek before tumbling to the ground.

Dick couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled out of his mouth.

Damian _pouted_. “This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on,” Dick coaxed. “It just takes practice. Hand-eye-mouth coordination and all.”

Something glinted in Damian’s eyes. “You could consider this training?”

Dick’s shrug was non-committal. “Sure.” He tossed two more peanuts up and caught them expertly, grinning down at Damian’s thinly-veiled awe.

Damian kept practicing the entire three-block walk to the museum. It was a good reminder for Dick to watch his own walking pace; Damian could walk okay but lost steam quickly. But it also proved to be a good distraction for Damian, who was less focused on the people they passed and the sudden sounds of the city around them.

They hadn’t even reached the art museum yet, and they were having. . . fun.

Dick’s mind spun with ideas. He wanted to get Damian out of the house more often, now that they could. He wanted to take the kid to baseball games (though that had always been more Jason’s thing,) to the museums, and street festivals. He wanted to introduce Damian to the foods of the city, the sounds and rhythms of the sprawling metropolis in the sunlight. 

He wanted to do with Damian everything Bruce had done with him.

He tilted his head up toward the sky, taking a (perhaps unwise) deep breath of the city air. It was overcast, as usual, but there were hints of blue peeking between the blankets of clouds. A large flock of birds flew by overhead, sweeping and soaring in their abstract formations before taking off toward the coastline.

Dick followed them with his eyes, and the glint of light on a window, high up on a distant skyrise, caught his attention.

The seed of an idea planted itself in his mind. He would talk to Alfred about it later.

For now, he and Damian were going to have _fun_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I wrote about Dick taking a deep breath outside and my brain immediately was like "that's gotta be uncomfortable in a mask" because pandemic brain is a real thing


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the longest yet? Again? Who knows, I may be starting a trend.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood mention, Damian has a hard time doing physical things, (self) victim-blaming

It wasn’t like Dick didn’t like art. He did; he even liked to think he understood and appreciated it more than the casual observer. He had learned enough jargon to impress Gotham high society at auctions, and enough technique and history to identify stolen works as a vigilante. Sometimes he even enjoyed looking at it.

But he was _not_ getting things out of this lecture the way Damian was.

At some point between the artist’s introduction and the third tip on grog-clay ratio for sculpting, the kid had pulled a tiny journal from his pocket and begun scribbling in it furiously. Dick watched him with a smile he didn’t try to hide.

Damian had needed this. They both did.

And that thought sent his mind spinning, back to his crazy idea earlier that day. There was no way they would get through the entire museum today; they would have to come back. And some of the galleries rotated, so he would have an excuse to bring Damian more than once. He and Bruce used to have an annual pass; were they automatically renewed, or would he need to get a new one?

He didn’t realize how distracted he had become until Damian had to tap his foot to make him stop bouncing it in his space.

Dick offered him an apologetic grin, and switched which foot was propped up so he wasn’t wagging it in Damian’s direction. Damian didn’t even waste the time rolling his eyes before turning back to the front with rapt attention.

Dick peeked down at his journal. Words were written in a neat outlining system across both open pages. There were also small sketches in the margins; shapes and arrows that Dick didn’t understand but Damian clearly did.

Damian saw him looking and huffed, turning so Dick couldn’t see anymore.

The lecture ended after what felt like forever and no time at all. “It looks like that’s all the time we have for today,” the artist said. “Thank you for joining me this morning. I’ll be around for another hour if you have any questions.”

A smattering of applause echoed in the large conference room, and people began to gather their belongings and file toward the door. Dick sprang to his feet at the first moment it was acceptable to do so, and immediately got to work getting his blood flowing again. He was tired of sitting around so often; he was a mover.

“You ready, kiddo?” The nickname rolled off his tongue, and he winced when he realized what he had said, remembering Damian’s aversion to anything that could be deemed as “childish.”

But it was a testament to his fascination with the artist that Damian let it slide. He shut his pen in his journal so he could keep his place as he pried himself out of the seat. “Back to the manor?” he asked.

“Our registration came with tickets for the museum; we could look around a while before heading back.”

Damian’s face _lit_ up. (Dick would definitely be investing in annual passes, if just to see that face again.) Damian’s eyes flit to the other side of the hall and back, a clear question. “I wish to speak to the artist, first?”

“Is this about that project you’ve been working on?”

Damian didn’t answer, instead just raising an eyebrow. This new flavor of cryptic was definitely something he had picked up from Alfred. It was kind of cute. “Do not accompany me. I will be back.”

There were already two people at the front of the hall, crowding around the artist. Damian squared his shoulders before walking the short distance down the hall to join them. Dick followed halfway down, so he could at least be the visible guardian of the kid set loose at the art museum. Damian whipped his head around and raised an eyebrow, making a shooing motion with one hand.

Dick rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He didn’t back off, but he pointedly took a seat exactly where he was, out of earshot but within “emergency meat shield” range. Damian turned back around and caught the artist’s attention.

Dick made himself comfortable watching. The last thing he needed was for Damian to be snatched again.

The thought instantly curdled his mood.

It was just the artist, a beanpole of a college student, and a middle-aged woman with dark skin. There was security at the front doors, and plenty of cameras throughout the building and around the exits in case anything happened. This was the most secure place the kid had been since the Batcave.

It didn’t mean Dick would invite trouble. He just had to keep the kid in his sights; that’s where he had gone wrong, before. He would be better.

He had enough self-awareness to feel his mood dropping, and pulled out his phone to distract himself. In the three hours of work he had missed so far, his inbox had amassed twelve new emails. (Honestly, not too bad. He would have to remember to thank his secretary again.)

Maybe it was impulsive, but he closed the notification for the emails and did some internet snooping on nearby attractions, keeping an eye out for things he thought Damian would enjoy. There was a park three blocks down, and the public library was only one bus stop away.

Dick tried to tamp down his excitement with each new discovery. There would be time.

Their passage through the museum was slow. Damian took meticulous notes on most of the art they passed, sneering at some pieces and nodding with fascination at others. It was kind of cute, if he was honest.

Damian was staring at a particularly morbid painting at the end of the gallery. A Baroque work, with blood and knives and a swirling mote of action. He squint and cocked his head to the side, tracing the spiral of focus in the air with his finger before jotting it down in his notebook.

Dick stepped up next to him. “What do you think?”

Damian had to have seen him step up, but he still startled when Dick spoke. They were the only ones in the gallery; it was quiet. He brushed it off quickly. “It has good composition.” His nose scrunched. “The blood is highly unrealistic.”

Dick laughed. “I was wondering why you were staring. Only you would notice something like that.”

Damian clicked his tongue, but Dick caught a flash of movement as his grip tightened around his pen. “What do you think about it?”

“Kind of violent for my taste. Not exactly a parlor piece, you know?”

Damian nodded once, slowly. Dick wondered what he had said; clearly something was bothering the kid. “But it’s interesting to look at?”

Damian ignored him, already heading to the next room.

Dick sighed quietly in defeat. Maybe it was just more of Damian’s weird mood showing through. He checked his phone; an hour had passed already, and they were only just getting past the first room. “How about we go straight to the sculptures,” Dick suggested. He had to circle around in front of Damian to get his attention before he got swept into the next portrait of a long-dead aristocrat. “So we can make sure you see them before we run out of time.”

Damian paused a moment before nodding. “An excellent point.” He snapped his notebook shut and started across the gallery with a confident gait, eyes on the archway beyond the next room.

Satisfied with the new pace, (and better attitude?), Dick followed.

The art museum had quite the collection, and the size of the building reflected it. With no clear-cut path from the front to the statues, they were forced to wind through the sprawling galleries, past pottery, textiles, and paintings from all times and places. It was a slow day; they only passed a handful of fellow patrons, and the galleries were a serene, peaceful place.

Dick noticed Damian’s walking changing, first. Damian tripped once, his toes squeaking on the polished wood floor in an uncharacteristic misstep. He caught himself right away, and it hardly would have been a blip on Dick’s radar if it weren’t for the way he subtly adjusted his movements afterward. His normally measured steps devolved into smaller shuffles, like Dick had seen elders use to avoid losing balance.

“You okay?” Dick asked.

Damian only slowed down a moment to look over to him. “I am well. Why?”

Dick sucked on his tongue, then decided against bringing anything up. “You’re just quiet.”

Damian clicked his tongue and continued his march toward his goal. “I am thinking.”

“About your project?”

“You will not be able to wheedle information out of me, Richard. I was trained by assassins.”

Dick’s brow furrowed, the answer again seeming a little . . . defensive?. . . for the mood he had thought they were sharing. But, again, he bit his tongue.

Until he noticed Damian’s breathing. The kid was hiding it well, but he was sucking in breath much faster than was warranted by their pace. “Hey, wait up,” Dick said, stopping in his tracks. “Why don’t we sit down for a little bit?”

“I am not tired.”

The words sounded a little forced, but Damian kept moving and slipped around the corner into the next room before Dick could stop him.

Dick sighed. Maybe he was just overreacting.

But he rounded the corner and nearly ran into Damian. The kid had stopped, frozen at the sight of the room before him.

They knew the statues were on the second floor. They knew there would be stairs. But it was only now, looking up the marble from the base of the steps, that they realized what a battle that would be. There had to be several dozen steps; enough to warrant three platforms with benches for resting to divide the journey for visitors.

Damian’s shoulders tightened. The manor had a grand staircase, sure, but it had less than half the number of steps this one did.

Dick noticed the almost imperceptible change in his posture. “We can look for the elevator,” he offered immediately. There weren’t clear signs for it, but he had been there often enough with Babs to be familiar with the accessible entrances. (Dick would have to have _another_ conversation with the director, apparently.)

“I do not need it,” Damian dismissed, stepping forward with false bravado. His tone had a sharp edge to it, the same tone he used to take when Dick was training him and tried to make him take a break: determination.

Damian had been so careful the last month, taking his time to train his muscles back into shape. But even if Damian was more comfortable admitting when he needed help, he clearly needed a reminder when he was barreling headfirst into a challenge too big for him.

Dick threw an arm in front of Damian, stopping him before he could climb that first step. “I think we should take the elevator.”

Damian flinched back at the arm, but his startle quickly turned into a glare. The kind of glare he had used when he was new to this, and throwing up bristles to hide his insecurities. Dick knew better than to pay them any attention.

Damian opened his mouth to complain, but Dick cut him off. “Take a minute—” he stopped, realizing his tone was too sharp. He relaxed his demeanor before continuing. “Listen to your body.”

Damian’s mouth snapped shut, no doubt realizing how loud his breath had been in the large empty room. His glare settled back into place quickly. “I’m not _weak_ ,” he insisted, and pushed through Dick’s arm to stomp up the steps.

And, okay, that surprised him. Dick wasted a second processing what Damian had said. ‘Weak’ was a word he would _never_ use for Damian. He was willful, and caring, and worked hard to get wherever he wanted to go. Instead of voicing any of those thoughts, Dick blurted, “Where did _that_ come from?”

“I can do this.” Damian was already winded, practically panting after a half-dozen steps. “There is _no_ reason to be _afraid_ of a flight—“ the last word rose in pitch before cutting off abruptly, Damian’s toes catching under the lip of the next step.

Dick _gasped_ as Damian tumbled forward. “Damian!”

Dick was already rushing up the stairs by the time he registered that Damian had made contact with the floor. The sound of it echoed in the large stone room. Dick crouched next to him to peer down to see his face, and let out a shaky sigh when he saw that Damian had managed to catch himself with his hands. “Are you okay?”

Damian didn’t answer for a moment. Dick lowered himself more, so he could make out Damian’s face. It hadn’t sounded like he had hit his head on the floor, but now he second-guessed himself. He tentatively slid his hand over one of Damian’s and flipped it over, checking for injury.

His palms were red, but no amount of prodding elicited any pain response from Damian. His sleeves had ridden up, revealing the scars. Dick caught himself staring, and forcibly removed his gaze.

Damian was shaking, still looking down at the marble between his knees. “What’ _wrong_ with me?”

With an insistent tug, Dick pulled him to his feet and helped him lean back on the banister. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Damian’s chest was heaving. His hand squeezed once, where it was still nestled in Dick’s hand, before releasing abruptly. “Please—please let go.”

Dick loosened his grip like he had been burned. “Sorry.”

Damian pulled the hem of his sleeves down to cover his wrists. It was quickly becoming a nervous habit. “I can’t even go to an _art museum_ without _collapsing_ —”

“You’re okay, Damian—”

“I’m not okay! I can’t make it up the stairs by myself!”

“Take a deep breath.”

“ _Stop_ telling me to _—_ ” Damian cut himself off. His expression and posture suddenly deflated, and he sank down to sit on the stairs, hiding his face in his raised knees. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

Dick was floored when Damian’s shoulders began to shake.

The kid didn’t make a sound when he cried.

Dick took a deep breath to let go of his own tension. He sank down to sit on the steps below Damian, mirroring his posture. “You’re not weak.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Damian tilted his chin up, revealing red-rimmed eyes. “If you really believed it. . . .” He trailed off. Shook his head.

“What is it?”

“Never mind.” Damian took a moment to collect himself before climbing back to his feet. Dick offered a hand, but Damian smacked it away, and then froze mid-motion, his fingers curling into a fist before dropping to the banister. He two-handed it the entire way down, steps careful like they hadn’t been since early in his recovery. “I wish to return home.”

Dick couldn’t blame him, but he hated the idea of leaving on such a sour note. Damian’s journal had fallen out of his pocket and slipped a few steps down, and Dick flit down to grab it for him. “Here.”

Damian looked like he wanted to refuse it, but after a moment he accepted it and shoved it back into his pocket.

“What’s wrong?” Dick asked. “There’s something more going on here.”

Damian didn’t answer; he got to the bottom of the stairs and found a bench to sit on. He was still breathing hard, and his hands shook.

“Damian, you need to talk to me.”

Damian wouldn’t look up at him. It made him look even smaller. “I just need a moment. To catch my breath.”

Dick pressed his lips together, but decided against pressing the issue right now. He would need to do it in an environment where Damian felt safer. “Take all the time you need.”

He decided against sitting next to Damian, instead copping a squat on the floor, leaning against the far end of the bench.

They waited there in silence, and Dick listened to Damian’s breathing slow back into an even rhythm. He was thankful the museum was close to empty today; he didn’t want to imagine trying to do this while navigating crowds. 

He was surprised when Damian spoke first. “Did father ever bring you here?”

Dick turned his head to look back at Damian. The kid was staring resolutely at the vaulted ceiling. His eyes were still red. (He wouldn’t see how hard Dick had to fight away a frown.)

“Yeah. They used to host events in the lecture hall before the conference center was finished.”

Damian hummed. “You never came for the art?”

Dick shrugged, adjusting his posture so he could see Damian without craning his neck. “We came at least once a year. We had passes.”

Damian opened and closed his mouth a few times before continuing; Dick waited patiently. “So father did not like art.”

“No,” Dick cut in. “He does-- _did_. It was more me, really.” He stumbled over his words, realizing what that would sound like, to Damian. “And it’s not like I don’t like art, either. I just wasn’t as patient as you when I was your age.”

A humorless smile tugged at Damian’s lips. “That much hasn’t changed.”

“Hey,” Dick drawled out in fake offense. Damian cracking jokes was almost enough to erase that heavy feeling in his chest. “That really hurts.”

Damian finally dropped his gaze from the stratosphere, his brown pinched. “What was it like?”

“What part of it?”

Damian thought a moment, and shook his head. “Never mind.”

Yeah, Dick wasn’t going to have that. “We’d usually spend the entire day here. Bruce would make me take notes on the artwork and—” Dick dropped his voice, looking around to check again for anybody listening, “—and the security.”

Damian clicked his tongue, but the silence that followed was a clear invitation to continue.

“He wanted it to be an ‘educational adventure,’ but I always managed to distract him so we actually had fun.” Dick jumped, changing his posture again to turn and look directly back at Damian. “One time, I convinced him to get chicken strips from the cafeteria, and he tried to eat them with a _fork_.”

“It is logical,” Damian argued.

Dick groaned. “Not you, too.”

He paused, tilting his head to the side.

Damian’s brow scrunched in worry. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dick shook his head. “You guys just have a lot in common.”

‘Had,’ he mentally corrected himself.

Damian tugged at his sleeves again, and his next words were an uncharacteristic whisper. “I wouldn’t know.”

Dick’s world rocked sideways.

He remembered Damian as he had been when he had arrived to Gotham, the way he worked with Bruce, the way he fought so hard to prove himself in all the wrong ways. The weight in his chest got heavier; a balloon near to bursting with water.

Dick had been grieving his father; Damian hadn’t even known him.

“Two peas in a pod,” Dick said. His voice had gotten thick, and he coughed to clear it. “Bruce would have loved to bring you here. Probably more than any of us.”

Damian’s eyes widened in worry, “I apologize for bringing it up. I did not mean—”

Dick placed a hand on his foot to stop him. “No, it’s okay.” There were tears in his eyes, he realized. He blinked them away. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to about him. About the good things.”

Damian’s lips flattened, in an expression he had to have picked up from Dick. A moment later, a woman emerged from the gallery ahead of them and started up the stairs. She gave them a little nod of acknowledgement as she passed.

“I am ready to go,” Damian said, when she was out of earshot. He pushed himself up, and to his credit, he looked steadier.

But Dick was beginning to suspect he was just getting better at acting. “Wait.”

Damian looked like he was going to ignore him.

“You aren’t weak.”

He froze.

Dick inched closer, staying low to the ground so he wouldn’t be looming over him when he said what he needed to say. He dropped his voice so it wouldn’t travel in the large hall. “If this is about what happened with Michael—I only know what you told Gordon. And you don’t have to tell me everything, if you don’t want to. _Ever_. But I want to make sure you know that nothing that happened was your fault.

Damian’s hand clenched into a telling fist, abruptly released, and went to his opposite arm to check his sleeves were down.

Dick _desperately_ wanted to hold it.

“I know I’ve said it to you a hundred times.” Dick leaned forward, trying to put himself into Damian’s view. “But I’ll say it a _million_ more times if I have to. That _monster_ —” he cut himself off, controlling his tone. “I don’t know what he made you do. I don’t know what he told you. But none of it was your fault.”

Damian was quiet a long time.

Dick had learned not to hold his breath.

Finally, Damian audibly swallowed, nodded, and continued his way out the door.

* * *

Maybe Damian humored the idea, sometimes.

He waited until Richard and Pennyworth had retreated to the cave before getting up. On expertly quiet feet, he crept to the tarp hiding his project, and returned with a small contraption in hand.

Maybe Heymann really was a master manipulator. Maybe breaking his most solemn promise to never hurt an innocent person again didn’t count. Maybe killing the man really was the final option he had had to protect himself, and Batman, and all of Gotham.

He worried the device between his fingers. Its contours were familiar, and when he finally had the nerve to slip it into his ear, it still fit like a glove.

Richard had said he wasn’t weak. But Damian had already stalled for days, afraid to turn the comm unit on. Afraid of the reaction he would have to Batman’s voice.

He had hidden the device months ago, in case a situation arose where he would require his Robin gear and didn’t have access to the cave. Now it was his best access point to anything happening after 21:00.

His fingers hovered over the button that would silently connect him to the communication channel.

Richard insisted he wasn’t weak, but if he believed it he would tell Damian the truth.

(Damian was too dangerous.)

(Damian wouldn’t be able to handle the cases.)

Sometimes Damian was _glad_ he had killed Heymann. And it terrified him.

The weight of that thought is what finally made him press the button.

Static filled his ear, at a volume and frequency to which he wasn’t accustomed. It took a moment for the device to calibrate, and then the static dissolved into voices.

Damian held his breath. He couldn’t be caught.

* * *

“Are you okay?” Dick asked, offering a hand to the young man on the ground.

“I-I’m good. Thanks, man.”

Dick didn’t respond; he couldn’t be _too_ nice under the cowl. “Agent A?”

“ _Yes_?”

“How soon do you think police can get here?”

“Wait,” the man said, stepping back. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“We need to file a report,” Dick said. “You don’t have to be here, if you don’t want to be.”

“ _Ten minutes,_ ” Alfred interjected.

The man took another step back, then hesitated when his shoe hit a metal shape on the ground, sending it skittering out past his feet. He knelt, keeping a wary side-eye on Dick, and stood with a batarang in his hands, which he held out to him.

“Keep it,” Dick replied. “I have plenty.”

“Nah, man. I can’t let them think I’m a sympathizer, you know?”

The reminder was a grim one, and prompted Dick to accept the crude knock-off weapon. He reached down into his belt, and noticed the way the man flinched before he pulled out a wad of cash. “This should be enough to get you a cab home.”

The man accepted the cash and bolted, not even a word of thanks.

Dick watched his retreating back until he disappeared. “You didn’t happen to track the assailants?”

“ _Did you want me to?”_

“No.” He lifted the weapon into the light. The differences in quality were obvious to him. “There were three, but this wasn’t an organized attack. Tracking them wouldn’t get us to the root of things.”

“ _I do—num—”_

Dick frowned at the sudden static, pressing his ear. “A?”

It took a second, but the signal resolved. _“Apologies, sir. There seemed to be interference. I have the license numbers._ ”

“I’ll pass it on to the police.”

The batarang was too sharp along the edges, to the point of being brittle. There were already chips and scratches in the material, something that would never happen with the real thing. It wasn’t balanced at all; no wonder it had missed the target.

 _Luckily_ , it had missed its target.

_“Sir, if I may?”_

“Shoot.” Dick slid the batarang into his belt. They could add it to their collection in the cave.

 _“Perhaps it is unwise to stay until police arrive_.”

Dick paused. “They were fine last night.”

“ _You are aware of how quickly sentiments can change._ ”

“You don’t really think Gordon believes Batman has tried to kill all of these people.” The sentence lilted up at the end, more of a question than Dick wanted to admit.

 _“The Commissioner cannot control which rumors they believe._ ”

This was getting out of hand. “I can’t do my job like this. Disappearing now will just make me look more guilty.”

_“Until somebody is watching your back again—”_

Dick turned abruptly, though he knew Alfred wouldn’t see it. “I’m _not_ dragging Robin into this. The last thing we need is another Michael Heymann running around.”

He thought he heard Alfred’s breath hitch, but dismissed it.

 _“You owe the boy an explanation,”_ Alfred said, softly. _“You of all people know how it feels._ ”

“I know, I know.” Dick clicked the button on his wrist that would summon the new-and-improved-Batmobile. “I have a plan. Something to soften the blow.”

 _“And you plan to enact it before he is legally allowed to drive, I assume?_ ”

“Ha, ha.”

The Batmobile pulled up next to him, and just in the nick of time, too. The tell-tale colors of police lights gleamed from around the corner, hot on the tail of Batman’s vehicle. Dick leapt inside and sped away quickly, though he wasn’t sure of his destination, yet.

“What are the odds of a second attack tonight?” he asked, dropping the growl in favor of a more comfortable voice.

 _“There hasn’t been a night of two consecutive attacks.”_ The ‘yet’ was heavily implied. _“But as you know, violence has been escalating.”_

When Dick adjusted his posture, he felt every new bruise and cut he had acquired. He grimaced as he pulled the fake Batarang out again. “How many does this make?”

“ _Twelve_.”

“They’re getting better.” He threw it into the passenger seat with disgust. He should probably be more careful, and put it in an evidence bag, but if this was anything like the others, the surface was already plenty contaminated by the city. There was nothing to go off. It was generic sheet metal, found at any construction or hardware store, shoddily cut and sharpened into the approximate shape it was supposed to be.

“I’ve got to figure out who’s making them. If I can figure that out, I can figure out who’s trying to frame me.”

 _“You and I both know it may not be that simple._ ”

“What else am I supposed to do?” He checked the time. It was already one, and he had promised to be back by two. “I’m going to call it a night.”

“ _Excellent choice, Master Batman.”_

“Don’t patronize me,” he joked. Even as he said it, a thought occurred to him. “Have you looked at the stuff I sent you?”

“ _Indeed_.”

“And?”

_“We will discuss it further when you are out of costume. It is hardly an appropriate subject for vigilante work.”_

Dick grinned. “So you approve.”

There was a soft tut on the other side of the line. _“I will see you shortly.”_

“Thanks, A.”

Even if the underbelly of Gotham was rearing its ugly head, Dick found himself hopeful. The transition would probably be messy, but on the other side was the thing he and Damian needed most.

A fresh start.

* * *

Damian’s hands shook so hard he had trouble removing the communicator from his ear, even an hour after Batman had returned to the cave and the transmission had gone dead.

He would have to try again tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have moved into my own place for the first time, and I have decided that is a valid excuse for not having the energy to write anything for a solid month. I have read all of your wonderful comments!! Thank you!!!! And thank you for being patient with me <3
> 
> I tried to indicate this throughout the chapter, but there is a bit of a time skip here. Several weeks have passed.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter (in order of appearance): uncharacteristic alcohol consumption (Dick drinks a moderate amount of alcohol at an event, which Damian notes is out of character for him. He does not get drunk); Damian has a panic attack/flashback in public; Bullock is an asshole

Damian’s fingers gripped the edge of the sink in his bathroom.

He lifted a shaky hand to the towel in front of him and took a firm grip. The plush fabric was a welcome contrast to the cold marble of the sink top, but once his fingers were wound in it, they stilled.

This was ridiculous.

With a deep breath to steel himself, he whipped the fabric down.

He forced himself to look in the mirror.

He was almost relieved to know he still made a reflection at all. His hair was beginning to get longer than he had ever let it grow; he still wasn’t able to let anybody, even Pennyworth, close to him with scissors. Now, it was slicked back. His cheeks were perhaps less full, but he chalked it up to his recent growth spurt. And the bags under his eyes, caused by countless nights awake to listen patrol, could be concealed with makeup. He let out a deep breath when he realized those were the only visible differences.

The most obvious change was hidden from view, but Damian could _feel_ it. He hadn’t looked at them in weeks; it was why he had placed the towel over the mirror in the first place. But a morbid curiosity unbuttoned the high collar of his waistcoat.

The scars around his neck stood out in harsh contrast to his tan skin. He sucked in a breath at the sight of the small puckered marks where hot metal had splattered, and the dark red line of irritation wrapped around the front. He could always feel the scars, but when he traced the raised marks on his neck now, while he could see them, they felt so much _bigger_.

There was a knock on his door. “Damian? You about ready?”

“Two minutes,” Damian replied. He pulled concealer from a drawer and dabbed it under his eyes, brushed it over the worst of the lingering discoloration on his hands. Practice made it easy to smear it out until it blended perfectly with his unaffected skin. He started to put it away again, but hesitated.

Socialites got handsy.

He put some over his neck scars, too.

More knocking. “Two minutes are up. Come on, kiddo. Any later and it won’t be fashionable anymore.”

Damian hastily buttoned up the high collar of his waistcoat again. The scars completely disappeared.

Richard had to jump back from the hastily-opened door, narrowly avoiding a bloody nose. But he smiled, and stepped back to take Damian in. “Lookin’ slick.”

Damian rolled his eyes. He hoped it drew attention away from where his fingers played with the hem of his sherwani. “This collar is ridiculous.” It was far from traditional, and all of the embroidery in the world could not distract from the awkward height of it.

Richard’s smile turned wry. “Just wait, it will be the new fashion trend by the fall.” He kneeled down to examine Damian’s hair. “May I?”

Damian nodded.

Richard combed a few stray pieces back, and Damian pretended his stomach didn’t tighten with unease at the contact. He stared at his older brother’s neck, trying to will his mind into believing it wasn’t an action meant to harm him. “This gala will be a waste of our time.”

Richard pulled away to study his face, hesitating before answering. “We have to keep up appearances,” he finally explained, which was not a disagreement. “Nobody’s seen a Wayne at an event in months.” Richard’s voice was softer when he added, “And Bruce isn’t back.”

Damian knew Richard well enough now to recognize how much it hurt him to say that. And how much it would hurt for them both to repeat their cover stories all night: Bruce is overseas, or cruising the Pacific, or making business deals in Eastern Europe, or training for his new charity foundation in South America. They last heard from him this morning, when he regretted to inform them that weather kept his flight from leaving and he wouldn’t make it back in time.

It was suffocating, knowing your father was dead and having nobody with which to share the grief.

Richard opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but Damian beat him to it. “We can leave after the speech?”

Richard adjusted his tie, loosening the stranglehold Pennyworth undoubtedly affixed. “Not a minute later,” he promised. “Just. . . stick close to me, okay? We’ll get through it.”

Damian had no intention to do otherwise.

Something in his face must have given away his unease, because Dick cracked a grin as he climbed back to his feet. “Hey, at least the music should be good,” he offered. “They usually hire a string quartet for this one.”

Damian hummed noncommittally.

It was just a few hours. They could do it.

* * *

The music wasn’t terrible.

That was about all the good Damian could say he drew from the gala.

To be fair, he was doing his best to avoid the other people, and thereby missed the ‘point’ of the event. Not that he would gain much from the interactions; the adults ignored him at best and actively harassed him at worst.

Tonight he was more aware than ever of the eyes watching him: the people who came to talk to Richard over his head, the older people who sneered at him when the requested a pastry from one of the passing waiters. One of the security guards, an older man with a round belly, tobacco-stained fingers, and a mean face, kept stealing glances at him from across the room.

It made his skin crawl.

He forcefully relaxed his hands as he watched the quartet play, scooting closer to Richard every time somebody brushed past him too closely. He had been practicing tolerating crowds, but he had yet to be confined inside with such a large one. Richard continued to drift further away from Damian’s preferred emergency exits.

It was maddening.

“Richard _Grayson_! It’s been too long!”

Damian turned away from the musicians to watch his brother play the part of the ditzy high-society boy for a woman wearing bright red lipstick. “Samantha!” They embraced in a brief one-side hug, saving their champagne glasses from a collision.

As much as the events were stuffy excuses to play up their affable personas, Richard thrived off the interactions. He was a “people person,” and seemed to glow with each new person he met.

Damian wished he had that kind of patience.

“That must be your brother?” Samantha asked, pointing to Damian.

“Yeah, this is Damian,” Richard grinned. He put a hand behind Damian, cleverly letting it hover over his back so he wasn’t making contact. “Damian, this is Samantha Kim. Her family owns real estate in the Diamond District.”

Damian nodded his head in a suitable greeting. “It is nice to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, too.” Judging by her smile, she seemed earnest. It was a nice change in pace. “Hey, where is Bruce? He would never miss a party like this.”

Only months of experience helped Damian catch how Richard’s smile went brittle around the edges. It wasn’t the first time anybody had asked; it would be far from the last. He tuned out as the older man prattled off the excuse of the day, with just the right amount of regret and flippancy to suggest it was nothing serious.

And, just like every other person that had floated over to chat, Samantha excused herself politely after the explanation.

It was odd. In a way, these events were more bearable for Damian without Bruce there to attract business attention. Maybe not for Richard, though.

Damian shuddered, and when he looked over, he recognized that the man with the mean face was staring at him again. He had moved closer, and looked vaguely familiar. “When is the speech?” Damian murmured, stepping closer to get Richard’s attention.

Richard noticed the change in his posture, and followed his gaze over toward the man. Immediately, Richard frowned. “I told him to back off.”

“You know him?”

Richard grabbed an hors d’oeuvre from a passing server and stepped directly into the man’s line of sight, blocking his view. “A detective.”

Damian blanched. If there was already a detective trailing him, it would not be long before his crimes were discovered.

“You don’t need to worry about him,” Richard continued, oblivious to Damian’s line of thought. He shot a glare toward the guard. “He’s _not_ going to bother you.”

It didn’t matter. Damian was bothered.

Richard checked his watch. “Ten more minutes until the speech.”

“And we can leave after?”

“Yes.” Richard sighed, and drained the last of the liquid in his older glass.

Suspicious, Damian snatched the glass from his hand and tasted the last drop. His nose scrunched in distaste. “This is champagne.”

“Um, yeah,” Dick said. “Give that back before someone sees. We don’t want someone reporting me to CPS.”

“You’re drinking alcohol.”

“I’m an adult.”

“You _never_ drink alcohol at these events.” None of them ever did. It was classic misdirection, allowing them to play the part without the consequences.

Dick’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s okay, Damian. I’m being careful.”

Damian clicked his tongue. He opened his mouth to reprimand him further, but was interrupted by another guest.

“Why, if it isn’t Dickie Wayne!”

They both turned to see a man with ruddy cheeks stumble toward them. “You’ve gotten taller!”

“Mr. Monroe, it is nice to see you.” Richard’s smile was obviously forced. Monroe was tall, broad, and reeked of alcohol. “How is the company doing?”

The man waved a clumsy hand. “Oh, you know. We’re still floating, and that’s saying something in this economy!” He laughed boisterously, gaining the attention of other gala attendees.

The man barreled closer to them both. Damian jolted back, maybe too quickly to be casual.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Richard replied smoothly. He tilted his glass in Monroe’s direction, creating a subtle barrier between the man and Damian. “If you don’t mind, my brother and I need to go find seats for the speech.”

“Of course! I’ll come with you!” The man dropped a meaty hand on Damian’s shoulder.

Damian stiffened.

Monroe began to steer him toward the seating, heedless of Damian’s frozen limbs.

The pressure took Damian back to the rooftops, where his bare feet had slid over ice and a low voice had commanded him to be good.

Every nerve tingled at the point of contact.

“Mr. Monroe,” Richard demanded, a little too forcefully to be friendly (to anybody who wasn’t drunk.) He cut in front of them both, forcing them to halt. “Do you mind taking my glass for a refill? We’ll save you a seat.”

The hand slid away. The flute was passed off, and the stench of alcohol left with the man.

Damian still couldn’t move. The phantom pressure of five fingers around his shoulder froze him to the spot.

Richard watched Mr. Monroe walk away, and when he was sure he was out of earshot he crouched down next to Damian, obstructing Damian’s view. “Are you okay?”

But it wasn’t until Richard touched his hand that he was able to snap out of it. He shook his head. “I am fine.”

This was a lie. His heart rate spiked, and his palms were sweating. But Damian set his face into a look of determination, and Richard’s searching found no proof they had to immediately leave.

After a moment, Richard dropped Damian’s hand and nodded. “We’ll leave right after the speech.”

Damian nodded.

They found seats near the back, so they could sneak out later. Richard, true to his word, saved the seat next to himself for Mr. Monroe, who returned with two fresh glasses of champagne and a conspirators’ countenance. “I’ve heard this speech is going to be a big one,” he said, elbowing Richard in the side.

“Oh?”

Mr. Monroe was thriving under the attention. “You heard about that police officer? The one killed by the Batman guy?”

It caught the attention of the couple behind them, and the two women sitting in front of them. The room got smaller as they all leaned in.

The detective was standing against the wall on the far side of the room, and his eyes met Damian’s for a heavy moment before flitting away again.

Damian’s dried his palms on his pant legs.

Richard’s smile fell slightly. “Yes, I have heard about it. But I don’t follow the news much.”

One of the women in front them chimed in. “I heard they caught the whole thing on film. Batman ripped his head straight off.”

A man behind them gasped. “You’re kidding! That’s awful!”

The woman nodded. “And all because of a turf war.”

“Is that why there’s been so much gang activity? I heard that someone tried to burn down Robert’s firm a week ago.”

Mr. Monroe held his free hand up to regain their attention. “Rumor has it, Felicia’s making a statement about it tonight.”

Damian didn’t think; he grabbed Richard’s hand. The warm, familiar digits squeezed his gently. “Isn’t it premature to be making decisions?” Richard asked, managing to sound only moderately interested. “I thought this was going to trial.”

“Well, _I’m_ glad somebody is taking a stand,” the woman chimed in. “Vigilantes are a nuisance to this city.”

Monroe gave Richard a hard look. “Wayne is a big supporter of the guy, isn’t he?”

To his credit, Richard’s shrug looked nonchalant. “We’ll wait to see how it shakes out before we make any decisions. Due process, and all.”

Monroe, and the lady behind them, gave him a sideways look as they turned back to their seats. The conversation was, apparently, over.

Richard took a long swig from the glass in his hand. Damian found himself jealous.

A woman walked to the podium at the front of the hall, and conversations went quiet everywhere. “Good evening,” she started, with a voice smooth as silk. “I am so happy to share an evening with each of you to celebrate the Haxworth Foundation’s work this past year. With your generosity, the foundation has managed to surpass our previous years’ giving, with a staggering 6,000 families assisted, setting a new personal record!”

The screen behind her lit up with their logo, two arms encompassing a stylized stick-figure family **.** Damian tuned out as she began the meat of her speech, focusing instead on the ticking of Richard’s watch. He would get to leave soon. He hoped focusing on that would help ebb the unwarranted nervousness ballooning inside himself. When the ticking wasn’t enough, he reverted to performing his finger exercises and stretches. His hands were mostly healed, but it couldn’t hurt.

He didn’t know how much time passed before a sharp “ _but_ ,” from the speaker snapped him back.

The speaker’s face went grim, and she clicked a button on the podium.

Damian’s ears began to ring.

Blown up to fill the screen was a picture of Michael Heymann. The man looked slightly younger than when Damian had last seen him, clad in his police uniform instead of the Batman one he had created. But those steely grey eyes were unmistakably his, and they pinned Damian to his chair.

“It was tragic to hear that this member of our very own Gotham City Police Department, Michael Heymann, has no surviving family members to claim his body after the ongoing investigation has been completed. We here at the Halifax Foundation believe we should treat all law enforcement, and the American legal system, with respect and dignity. We want to support and honor this brave officer’s memory with a _real_ memorial service and final resting place. A portion of the proceeds raised from tonight’s silent auction will go toward covering these costs.”

Polite applause smattered the crowd. Many people looked impartial; many more leaned in with excitement.

But Damian couldn’t draw his eyes away from Heymann’s face. The all-too-familiar wrinkles that became crevasses when he snarled. The mouth that had blown hot breath when he yelled.

The chin Damian had sliced open with a broken bottle.

The neck that Damian had squeezed until Heymann was dead.

“Richard,” Damian murmured. His fingers were tingling. “I think we should go.”

Richard’s posture was stiff. He was shocked, too, just better at hiding it. “If we leave now, we make a statement.”

“In addition to paying for his funeral costs,” the speaker continued, “we at the foundation are joining a coalition of like-minded people. Together, we are paying for better legal counsel for prosecution against the vigilante known at the Batman.”

Damian found his eyes drawn to the detective.

There was heat behind the man’s gaze. Anger. Directed at him.

The prickling sensation travelled up Damian’s hands, and started in his toes, too. His heart raced in his ears, louder than the applause and the holler of approval from Mr. Monroe. “ _Richard_.”

The older man looked down at him, and his face pinched with immediate worry.

“Vigilantes had their place in the world, but a new Gotham is rising. By boosting our local government and empowering our citizens, we can overcome the evil in our streets. Gotham needs _us_ , people working within the laws to change people’s lives for the better. People willing to put the needs of the city before the needs of the few. People willing to hold _murderers_ accountable for their actions against the innocent.”

The detective was boring holes through Damian’s chest.

Damian couldn’t breathe. There was a band around his neck, slowly closing in.

“Gotham does _not_ need a Batman. And I am here to prove it. Who would like to join me?”

The crowds erupted into cheers. Several people stood up to applaud the speaker as she graciously nodded and stepped down from the podium. Heymann’s face lingered on the screen behind her.

There was a pressure in Damian’s chest, a tightness, and he raised a hand to fist his waistcoat over where his heart was _burning_. He sucked in shallow gulps of air.

Richard leaned down toward him. “Damian, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

 _Everything_ , Damian wanted to say. He couldn’t manage the words. Everyone was standing up now, and Damian couldn’t see past the wall of bodies. He couldn’t see the exits. He couldn’t _reach_ the exits.

Richard reached out, to pick him up or check his temperature, Damian wasn’t sure. He slapped the hand away before it could touch him, the very _idea_ of contact making him nauseated. And before Richard could say anything else, Damian leapt over his chair and _ran_.

The leash didn’t pull slack like he expected.

He escaped the crowd, but it wasn’t enough. The door was a short sprint away, and he rerouted. He aimed to leave the building, but he had scarcely rounded the corner to the hallway when a wave of dizziness struck him.

His shoulder hit the wall, and, panic clogging his throat, he froze in place.

Richard found him there, not a second later. “Damian, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He stepped closer, hands held high, like the was afraid Damian would run again. “Do you want to sit down?”

Wordlessly, Damian slid to the floor. His legs didn’t feel connected to his body.

He was cold. The floor was freezing.

“That’s good. That’s good.” Richard knelt next to him, still an arm’s length away. Somewhere in Damian’s hamster wheel of a brain, he noticed how pale his brother looked. “What did you eat? Have you touched anything?”

Damian shook his head once, sharply. This didn’t feel like the reaction to any poison he had ever been exposed to.

“Can you take a breath for me? Please?”

It took Damian a moment to recognize he wasn’t breathing. It was so hard to breathe through the tightness around his throat.

“Damian, _breathe_.”

Obediently, he opened his mouth wide to sip air in and let it out again.

“Can you do it again? You’re doing great.”

_Good job, Robin._

Damian shuddered, but he wasn’t sure whether it was from how _cold_ it was or the dark voice praising him.

Heavy footsteps slammed around the corner. “What happened? Where did he go?”

_Heavy footsteps on the floor above him. Coming down the stairs. Dangerous._

“Just listen to me, Damian. Breathe.”

It was harder, this time. A phantom band was wrapped around his neck, and Damian clawed at the high collar of hist waistcoat with quivering hands.

“What’s wrong with—”

“ _Shut. Up.”_

Damian winced at the tone, fingers giving up on loosening his collar.

“Do you want it unbuttoned?” Richard’s voice was calm again, soothing. “Can I help you?”

He nodded, slowly.

Richard inched forward and carefully unbuttoned the collar, barely putting any pressure on Damian’s throat. It marginally helped him escape the feeling of cold pressure around his neck, pulling and yanking and squeezing. He let his head drop between his raised knees to try and regain control.

He was shivering. His paltry cape wasn’t enough to keep him warm in the basement.

Something touched his back, and Damian full-body flinched, anticipating the sting of the belt.

It left as soon as it appeared, accompanied by a low growl. “Don’t fucking _touch_ him. _Leave._ ”

A wounded sound escaped Damian’s mouth.

“You’re okay, Damian,” Richard muttered. (The heavy footsteps were backing away.) “I’m right here with you. You’re safe. Keep breathing for me. Slow breaths; in four, out four.”

Damian tried to match his breathing with the steady stream of air that tickled the back of his neck. He _tried_.

“That was good.”

_Do you promise to be good?_

“I promise,” Damian whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“What was that?” Richard asked, leaning marginally closer. “You don’t have to apologize.”

 _You should thank me._

“Just keep breathing. You’re with me. You’re safe.”

Safe. Damian was safe.

It wasn’t any easier to take a breath. But it didn’t get worse, either.

“That’s so good, Damian. Keep doing that, okay? And I’m going to ask you some questions, if you’re up for it?”

Damian didn’t know if he could answer anything. He nodded anyway.

“Are you physically hurt?”

The words spun through his mind for a long minute before he could find his body and assess it. His chest felt like there was a knife through it. His heart sounded like helicopter propellers in his ears. He was still freezing. He raised his fist to his chest, conscious of his aching fingers and toes and ribs, but shook his head.

“That’s good. Has this ever happened to you before?”

Damian didn’t have to think. “No.” Never like this. Never this strongly.

“Okay, we’re going to play a game. What are three things you can smell?”

The basement was damp and dark. “Mildew,” he answered. His mind failed to come up with anything else, and for a moment he got lost in the sensation of his own harsh breathing against his legs.

A soft hum. “I can smell the vase of roses over there. Can you smell roses?”

Damian had to open his eyes to concentrate. The carpet was hideous. “Roses and steak.”

“Can you tell me three things you can hear?”

This was absurd. Damian clung to the words, regardless. “People talking.” There were so many of them. “Music. Glass cups.”

“Very good. Can you try breathing in 7, holding 4, and releasing for 8 counts with me?”

It took Damian many, many tries to match the pace. The breathing helped. Little by little, with Richard stopping to ask him inane questions, Damian returned to himself.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he felt settled, but when he looked up, Richard was crouched in front of him, blocking the view of the people who had poured into the hallway and toward the exits.

Hot shame flooded Damian’s cheeks.

“Hey there, Dami. You back with us?”

Damian groggily nodded his head. He was exhausted. “What happened?”

Richard hushed him. “Alfred’s here with the car. Do you want to go, or do you need to sit for a while longer?”

Damian desperately wanted to leave. “Go.”

“Do you want me to carry you?”

Damian weighed his rubbery legs against the feeling that he hated to admit was fear. Reluctantly, he shook his head. Dick leaned back to give him room so he could wedge himself up using the wall for support.

The detective was down the hall, watching.

In a flash of panic, Damian buttoned his collar back up. Even if it made unease rise again. He wiped the itchy sensation of dried tears from his face, too, not quite remembering when he had been crying.

Richard stuck close to his side as they inched their way toward the door. Damian trailed his fingers along the wall, not trusting his legs to hold him after the. . . episode. Nobody bothered them except for a few glances, and Damian was thankful for once to be ignored.

The outside air was cold and clear, and nothing had ever tasted so refreshing. Pennyworth waited by their vehicle, his lips thinned with worry.

“Almost there,” Richard coaxed. Damian didn’t have the energy to scoff at the demeaning tone.

“Grayson,” called a gruff voice.

Richard ducked his head and walked faster, one hand behind Damian’s back encouraging him to keep pace.

Heavy footsteps slapped down the shallow stairs of the entrance, and Richard pushed Damian into Pennyworth’s hold, spun, and crossed his arms. “We talked about this,” he growled.

Pennyworth ushered Damian into the back seat with an apologetic look and shut the door firmly.

With the door shut, the sound was muffled. But he was also practically invisible to the outside world, so he did not hesitate to press his ear against the window to hear the conversation more clearly.

“—lawsuit on your hands. Do you want that? Because I will not _hesitate_ to file a complaint if you continue to harass my family.”

“I’m doing my job.” The detective looked under Dick’s shoulder, and Damian could swear he could see him. “It’s more than some people can say.”

Richard bristled like an angry cat. “I’m _sure_ I didn’t hear that correctly.”

The detective gave him a flat look. “Bruce’s never been responsible. I don’t know why I expected him to show up for this event, but obviously if he can go overseas while his second-youngest is missing and his youngest is so _fucked up_ he would have no problem—”

Richard lunged.

A hand caught his fist, a centimeter from the detective’s face.

Pennyworth frowned, releasing it. “Master Dick, it is time we returned home. Master Damian needs his rest.”

Richard was panting. He sneered at the detective. “I’ve been patient with you for weeks now. I’ve answered all of your questions, all of your phone calls, let you search my office and interview my staff. I draw that line at harassing my family. Consider this your warning.”

Pennyworth inserted himself between the two men. “Detective Bullock, I suggest you take your leave.”

Bullock backed up sulkily, but not without throwing out a final jab. “Who’s trigger-happy now?”

Dick climbed into the vehicle from the opposite side, and Damian was sure that if it weren’t for Pennyworth, he would have slammed the door shut behind himself. “I can’t believe the _audacity_ of that man!”

Pennyworth calmly sat in his own seat and pulled it away from the curb. “You cannot let yourself react out of fear.”

“I’m _angry_ , I’m not—” Dick huffed, exasperated. He looked over, then, at Damian, and with a deep breath he deflated. “Are you okay?”

Damian shrugged, tilting his head to one side with the movement. “That was the detective that works on Heymann’s case.”

“Yes.” Dick rubbed a hand down his face. “He’s been wanting to get a statement from you.” His face darkened. “He’s been trying to poke holes in my alibis.”

Damian twisted his fingers in the hem of his sherwani hard enough to make it hurt. “I could speak to him, if it would help.”

“ _No.”_ (Damian was relieved at the finality of the tone.) _“_ He has no business talking to you, and I won’t let him try.” Richard sank back into the seat, sighing. “I’m sorry, Damian. I should have warned you he would be here. I didn’t think he would be so. . . bold.”

When Damian released his grip, his fingers were discolored. Trembling.

“Are you okay?” Richard whispered. His arm twitched, like he was going to reach out and pull him into a hug. “I didn’t think they would bring up the case like that. I’m so sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“The signs were everywhere, and I was too caught up in playing ‘Dickie Wayne’ to see them. We should have left before the speech. It's my fault.”

Damian leaned over, resting his weight against Richard’s shoulder. It was a familiar warmth, a familiar shape. It didn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. “I would like to return home.”

“Okay. Okay, we’re going home. This won’t happen again.” Richard’s shoulder bobbed under Damian’s head with his sigh. “We’re going home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you who follow me on tumblr (@fidothefinch) know that I've been trying to write ahead. As much as I have drafted, I have not finished everything, so I cannot promise a regular posting schedule. That said, having so much drafted ahead means I should update more frequently than my usual!  
> Thank you so much for reading!


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